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Copyright 
June  i,  1925 

By 

CORNELIA    GRAY    LUNT 

Evanston,  Illinois 


Sketches 

of 

Childhood  and  Girlhood 


Chicago,  1847-1864 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


To  My  Dear  Nieces, 
My  Grandnieces 
and 
My  Cousins, 

I  DEDICATE  THIS  BOOK. 

In  Memory  of  the  Loved  Ones  Who  Have  Gone  Before 
and  the  Young  and  Untried  Who  Come  After. 

HAIL  AND  FAREWELL 


t 


p 

Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


uHe  Most  Lives 
Who  Most  Enjoys 
Most  Loves 
and  Most  Forgives." 


Page  5 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


PROLOGUE 


Dearest  Aunt: 


Many,  many  a  time  I  entertain  myself  by  recounting  the  tales  you  have  told 
from  the  innumerable  experiences  of  your  life.  Sometimes  the  story  will  come  to 
me  in  its  vivid  entirety,  but  alas — often  it  is  elusive  and  only  the  fragrance  or  color 
of  it  remains.  These  memories  of  your  yesterdays  seem  to  me  like  myriad  colored 
leaves,  caught  up  and  whirled  against  the  Heavens  by  the  winds  of  Autumn. 
The  tender  green  experiences  of  childhood — the  roseate  ones  of  middle  life — and 
the  golden  happenings  of  later  years!  Will  you  not  immortalize  them  in  this  little 
book? 

By  writing  these  "Leaves  of  Memory"  you  have  it  in  your  power  to  put  at 
interest  whatever  pleasure  this  gift  may  bring  you.  Thus  all  who  love  you  may 
benefit.  In  giving  us  a  record  of  your  memories  we  shall,  as  the  case  may  be — 
enjoy  delight — be  inspired  to  noble  deeds — or  perhaps,  reach  for  the  Stars! 

Lovingly  and  Longingly 
Colorado  Springs.  Regina  Lunt  Dodge. 

January  1923 


"Anchorfast"  Evanston,  February  4,  1923 

Beloved  Niece  Regina: 

When  last  Christmas  brought  that  attractive  Blank-Book,  blue  covered  and 
gold  lettered,  I  smiled  at  the  idea  of  filling  it  as  your  tender  words  suggested. 
I  thought  of  the  genuine  disabilities  of  age  that  are  apt  to  affect  our  entire  concep- 
tion of  the  value  of  various  incidents;  and  of  the  danger  always  of  an  excessive 
sympathy  with  oneself  which  fails  to  bring  out  errors  or  admit  deficiencies.  But 
your  letter  has  moved  me  by  its  affectionate  claim  for  the  young  of  our  family — 
and  that  I  may  not  be  wholly  forgotten,  and  at  your  asking,  the  tide  of  existence 
drifts  backward,  the  films  of  memory  unroll  and  I  recall  how  unknown  to  me  many 
small  and  seemingly  indefinite  currents  altered  unexpectedly  the  whole  course  of 
life.  There  are  no  little  things,  all  are  vital  forces  which  for  me  could  be  neither 
measured  nor  altered.  The  simplest  incidents  develop  in  such  widely  different 
directions,  and  make  a  mark  there  is  no  obliterating. 

Most  of  us  in  the  few  years  of  a  very  ordinary  existence  have  witnessed  many- 
strange  things,  have  stumbled  across  fundamentally  curious  ones,  and  after  all 
have  often  found  ourselves  sitting  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  fence!  There  is  nothing 
in  my  life  remarkable,  or  worthy  of  record  as  I  see  it  now.  I  mean  it  is  distinctly 
on  the  average  plane,  except  for  the  fact  of  enjoyment,  and  the  surroundings  01 
comfort  and  indulgence,  which  made  for  buoyancy  and  developed  ease  and  freedom. 
Hut  if  you  think  that  your  children  will  find  value  or  feel  interest  in  scenes  or 
sketches  of  their  (Irand-Aunt's  youth,  as  events  are  still  familiar  to  a  living  memory, 
I  will  try  to  tell  them  what  moved  me  most  or  delighted  me  most  in  those  earliest 
years.  They  will  he  merely  pictures  of  my  childhood  and  young  girlhood  in  des- 
criptions or  in  episodes   as   they  occur  to   me,  adopting   no  strict    method   in   the 

recounting,  nor  shall  I  make  essential  distinctions  in  following  chronological^ 

t  he  I  ime  and  plai  e, 


Pagt  6 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


After  over  three  quarters  of  a  century  with  the  Gulf  forever  widening,  vision 
to  me  is  not  remote  only  the  points  of  view  are  changed.  The  interest  is  as  poignant 
today  as  in  those  far  off  yesterdays,  and  this  I  can  promise  you — a  truthful  sum- 
mary in  accurate  detail  of  those  first  experiences  and  lessons — -which  will  show 
simply  the  inevitable  expression  of  inborn  qualities  and  tastes — the  result  of 
heritage  and  the  product  of  environment,  and  of  that  age.  It  is  curious  to  observe 
under  what  impulses  youth  or  middle  age  or  old  age  expresses  itself,  and  I  do  not 
wish  in  what  follows  to  write  under  impulses  any  more  than  I  wish  to  be  judged 
by  errors  in  dates  or  by  seeming  contradictions.  One  is  too  apt  to  offer  paradoxes 
because  sophisticated;  but  if  enthusiasm  undertakes  to  grapple  with  the  simple 
events  of  a  simple  life  enthusiasm  will  be  rewarded.  It  is  a  pity  to  travel  the  path 
of  life  without  that  companion  to  light  up  so  many  intangible  and  irremediable 
obscurities;  to  create  a  beautiful  atmosphere  and  enshrine  harmoniously  the 
commonest  associations  of  common  every-day  life.  Someone  has  said  that  the 
Unknown  is  a  nut  to  crack,  for  in  it  may  lie  the  secret  of  the  Universe! 

Sometimes  pleasantly  hypnotized,  softened  by  the  glare  of  these  late  afternoons, 
watching  the  changing  specks  of  gold  on  my  Lake;  drifting — drifting — drifting 
out  to  sea — waiting — no  longer  speculating  on  what  is  to  come.  Silence,  and  a 
blessed  calm  that  makes  serenity  better  than  jubilance;  here  in  my  lovely  back- 
water cove,  my  Anchorfast,  you  ask  that  I  should  reinstate  myself  in  the  World 
of  activities  and  excitements,  which  can  so  easily  again  envelop  and  transfigure 
as  one  writes? 

I  look  out  now  as  I  did  in  babyhood  across  blue  waters  under  blue  skies  to  the 
far  horizon,  and  think  what  a  wonderful  world  it  is  and  that  I  couldn't  have  lived 
but  for  its  beauty.  One  has  to  have  fellowship  with  the  trees  that  give  shelter  and 
the  flowers  that  scent  the  air,  and  all  living  things  that  are  a  part  of  our  world — 
and  of  all  living  things  human  beings  are  the  strongest  and  the  most  interesting 
for  with  them  lies  responsibility. 

Oh  it  has  been  good  to  live — /  love  it.  And  very  early  certain  longings  beset 
me  not  to  be  merely  a  passenger  but  one  of  the  Crew  of  the  Great  Ship  we  call  the 
World.  It  was  not  for  me  to  rule  or  reign  or  serve  mightily.  I  was  never  in  the  van 
of  the  battle  as  conquerer  or  leader.  I  was  no  climber  of  mountains.  Mine  were 
not  gifts  that  made  for  struggle  and  sacrificial  labours  and  royal  victories.  Life 
never  became  spectacular  or  severe  but  sheltered,  joyous,  confident  with  a  message 
of  love  I  wish  I  could  pass  on.  The  lessons  I  have  learned  are  comforting;  that  the 
trees,  the  flowers,  the  hills,  the  forests,  the  mountains  and  the  oceans  are  gifts  of 
Heaven  in  sight;  and  above  all  the  rich  gifts  of  loving  words  are  Heaven's  own 
Birthday  gifts  to  the  world  as  we  speak  them — and  it  is  for  us  to  make  every  day 
a  Birthday  of  delight  or  a  Christmas  of  joy. 

Walter  Pater  speaking  of  the  Eternal  glamours  of  childhood  says  our  susceptibili- 
ties, the  discovery  of  our  powers,  our  manifold  experiences  belong  to  this  or  the 
other  well-remembered  habitation!  And  so  it  is  that  instinctive  longings  come  to 
us  to  renew  our  childhood — "Even  in  the  Shadows  where  we  shall  find  the  ones 
we  have  played  with  and  have  lost." 

And  so  I  greet  you  Children  dear,  in  the  gathering  darkness,  with  its  sacred 
message  to  light  the  lamp  of  patience  and  press  on.  You,  too,  will  hear  "the  still 
small  voice"  that  says  we  must  all  wait  in  patience,  in  the  beginning  as  at  the  end — 
and  strive  for  life — 

"Life  that  dares  send 
A  challenge  to  its  end; 
And  when  it  comes  say 
Welcome  Friend." 
And  here  are  the  Reminiscences,  Regina,  with  the  tender  assurance  and  devotion 
of— 


Your  Aunt 

Cornelia  Gray  Lunt. 


Page  7 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS 


Book  I 

I  The  Little  Brother. 

II  The  Little  Dishes. 

III  The  Christmas  Message. 

IV  The  Fate  of  Liars. 

V  The  Gooseberry  Feast. 

VI  The  Eavesdropper. 

VII  The  Comforting  Answer. 

VIII  The  Two  Grandfathers. 

IX  The  Discovered  Likeness. 

X  The  Little  Lunts. 

XI  The  Boarding  School. 

XII  The  First  Vacation. 

XIII  The  Little  Southerner. 

XIV  The  Second  Year. 
XV  The  Happy  Farewell. 

XVI  The  Onward  Steps. 


Book  II 

XVII  The  Dream  Prince. 

XVIII  The  Finishing  School. 

XIX  The  Favoring  Winds. 

XX  The  Oversoul. 

Book  III 

XXI  The  Sea  Trip. 

XXII  The  Vain  Expectation. 

XXIII  The  Ocean  Symphony. 

XXIV  The  Sea  Fighter. 
XXV  The  Stepping  Stones. 

Book  IV 

XXVI     The  Distant  Drum. 

XXVII  The  Answering  Swords. 

XXVIII  The  State  of  Siege. 
XXIX    The  Word  of  Command. 

XXX    The  Other  Voice. 
XXXI     The  Tented  Field. 
XXXII    The  Last  Word. 


Pom  8 


Book    I 


"Let  us  rise,  0  my  heart,  let  us  gather  the  dreams  that  remain." 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


BOOK     I 


THE     LITTLE     BROTHER 

August  13,  1847. 

THE  LITTLE  GIRL  was  very  patient.  She  had  made  no  outcry  when  awk- 
ward fingers  pulled  hard  in  making  the  many  curls — "Pretty  curls"  she  had 
always  heard  people  say  when  they  smiled  on  her.  And  she  turned  to  have  the 
little  white  frock  fastened  without  protest  or  enquiry.  Her  first  adventure,  her 
first  going  forth  from  the  home  nest!  She  had  been  so  joyous  when  her  young 
Aunt  told  her  she  was  to  make  a  visit  at  the  kind  neighbour's — "All  day  long, 
and  you  will  see  things  and  have  such  a  fine  time" — and  so,  happy  filled  was  her 
little  heart  with  a  delightful  sense  of  expectancy.  But  strangely  now  a  little  be- 
wilderment shadowed  and  drove  away  pleasure.  She  suddenly  remembered  how 
her  Father  had  lifted  her  from  the  little  Trundle-bed  in  the  dark  of  dawn — how 
he  had  carried  the  sleepy  burden  to  her  Aunt's  side,  and  how  she  had  clung  to  his 
neck  as  he  laid  her  down.  But  soon  the  blessed  slumber  of  childhood  had  dimmed 
its  recollection.  Now  she  wondered,  and  swiftly  fear  entered  the  little  heart. 
Where  was  her  Mother? — Why  did  she  not  dress  her  and  tie  with  gentle  fingers 
the  bright  ribbon  sash  and  the  little  white  sunbonnet?  She  swallowed  hard — and 
it  burst  into  words,  the  new  ache  that  frightened  her — "I  want  Mother — Is  Mother 
sick?"  "Oh  no,  she  is  tired  now — she  will  see  you  when  you  come  back,  and  hear 
all  about  it;  and  if  you  have  been  a  very  good  little  girl  perhaps  Mother  will  show 
you  something  beautiful." 

I  remember  as  yesterday  the  green  and  gold  of  that  Summer  morning,  the  sky 
of  flowery  blue,  and  always  the  sound  of  the  Lake  that  broke  in  flashing  splendor 
on  the  piles  that  made  the  breakwater  opposite.  That  music  I  heard  night  and 
day — and  this  day  of  days  it  made  its  promise. 

They  showed  me  many  pretty  things  and  spoke  kind  words,  but  the  hours  were 
long  and  before  the  light  of  afternoon  had  begun  to  fade  there  crept  upon  me  the 
feeling  of  restlessness,  of  wistful  and  finally  definable  desire  which  yet  is  the  very 
essence  of  pain — great  tears  rolled  down  as  the  words  formed  themselves,  tightening 
the  heart,  choking  in  the  throat — "I  want  to  go  home,  I  want  Mother — I  want 
Mother" — "Don't  cry,"  said  the  kind  daughter  of  the  house  wiping  away  the 
tears  that  overflowed — "I'll  make  you  a  great  big  doll  like  a  real  baby — See  now," 
and  curiosity  and  kindling  interest  dried  her  eyes  as  she  watched  the  deft  fingers 
that  took  the  pillow  from  the  bed,  and  tied  a  long  skirt  around  the  middle,  another 
higher  up  to  make  the  neck,  pinned  back  the  corners  for  a  round  face,  and  with 
a  piece  of  charcoal  transformed  by  rapid  strokes  that  gave  hair  and  eyes  and  nose 
and  mouth,  and  fastening  a  cap  that  rounded  the  face  she  wrapped  it  in  a  blanket, 
and  placed  it  in  the  eagerly  extended  arms  almost  as  large  as  the  four  year  old 
that  held  it.  "Oh  can  I  have  it,  can  I  take  it  home?"  she  cried  in  ecstasy,  "Why 
I  think  there  is  a  little  Baby  at  your  house,  I  thought  I  saw  the  Doctor  leave  one 
there, — Let's  go  and  see"  was  the  surprising  answer  that  set  my  little  feet  flying. 

It  is  seventy-five  years  ago,  but  I  can  still  see  the  street  that  stretched  beside 
the  lake  as  we  passed  out  after  so  many  hours  of  that  unforgettable  day — And  Lo! 
when  breathless  I  found  myself  safe  at  home,  I  was  taken  into  the  darkened 
chamber!  They  lifted  me  up  to  see  the  pale  Mother  who  smiled  up  at  us  from  her 
pillow.    And  for  the  first  time  I  saw  love  made  manifest. 

Then  she  looked  down  upon  the  little  bundle  of  flannel  in  her  arms,  her  features 
irradiated  by  a  passion  of  tenderness — 

"See,  she  said — it  is  your  little  brother  and  his  name  is  Horace." 


Page  0 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


THE    LITTLE    DISHES 

March  19,  1849. 

THE  LITTLE  GIRL  looked  down  in  an  ecstasy  too  deep  for  words — Then 
looking  up  at  the  smiling  faces  round  the  table  the  barriers  broke — "Oh  are  they 
mine!  My  little  dishes!  Oh  Mother  they  are  big,  not  like  the  others  for  dolls 
and  babies!  Oh  Mother  they  have  little  posies  and  green  springs,  and  a  gold  band 
against  the  green.  They  are  beautiful,  they  are  beautiful"  she  repeated,  as  she 
bent  lower  and  clasped  her  hands  in  a  delight  even  too  great  to  touch  the  treasures. 

Yes,  it  was  her  Birthday,  but  who  could  have  thought  she  was  to  have  such 
a  surprise;  All  on  a  tray  at  her  own  plate  when  she  came  down  to  breakfast!  Why 
the  plates  were  as  big  as  saucers,  and  anyone  could  drink  out  of  the  lovely  cups, 
and  there  would  be  plenty  of  tea  for  them  all  in  that  little  Tea-pot  with  its  Creamer 
and  Sugar,  almost  like  the  old  ones  of  Great  Grand-mother  Patten's  that  Mother 
loved  so  much. 

But  her  awe  deepened  and  her  heart  beat  fast  at  the  words  she  heard — "A 
party?  A  real  party,"  and  she  could  ask  six  little  girls  that  very  day  for  Saturday 
afternoon!  Addie,  their  neighbour's  daughter  three  years  her  senior,  would  go 
with  her  from  house  to  house.  Her  spirits  overflowed.  She  rushed  for  a  paper  to 
have  her  Mother  write  the  names  and  just  what  to  say;  And  from  that  moment 
the  great  event  took  precedence  of  all  others  in  thought  and  speech — and  the  hours 
were  long  until  the  little  coat  was  buttoned  tight,  the  comforter  tied  about  her 
throat,  for  March  winds  were  cold  and  the  Lake  sang  a  sinister  song — "Don't 
be  too  happy  little  girl!    A  storm  is  brewing!" 

What  cared  the  proud  little  lady  holding  hands  with  Addie  and  tripping  along 
so  happily.  "Isn't  it  great  to  have  a  party?  Did  you  have  one  when  you  were 
six?"  "It  isn't  a  party  was  the  strangely  scornful  reply.  It's  just  six  children. 
That  doesn't  make  a  party.  It  takes  lots  more.  I  had  twenty-five  once" — and 
all  joy  was  blotted  out.  A  queer  pain  burned  in  her  eyes,  she  winked  away  some- 
thing hot  and  blistering,  and  at  first  Addie's  words  hardly  penetrated  to  con- 
sciousness. "You  could  ask  them — You  know  lots  of  little  girls  at  the  school. 
I  know  lots  of  little  girls  right  round  here — Come  on — if  you  want  a  real  party?" 
And  the  way  was  opened.  A  sudden  sense  of  power  and  confidence  aroused. — No 
questions  made  her  hesitate.  It  was  a  party  she  wanted — and  she  breathed  again 
with  pride,  and  called  at  every  house  in  the  neighbourhood  her  companion  in- 
dicated; and  when  she  saw  some  children  playing  in  groups  near  by  to  each  one 
was  repeated  carefully  her  Mother's  message,  the  invitation  for  Saturday  afternoon. 
Strangely  elate,  only  half  understanding  Addie's  warning,  she  returned  to  her 
"Little  Dishes"  with  no  disturbing  fears,  no  terrifying  questions,  no  punitive 
anticipations,  no  conscious  asking — "Why  did  ye  so?"  Oh  no!  She  was  afraid 
of  nothing.  It  was  to  be  a  real  party,  and  holding  that  thought  to  her  little  heart 
she  exulted  and  never  trembled  once.  She  had  no  realization  of  wrong — Why 
should  she? — Addie  said  that  it  was  to  be  a  fine  party  and  that  she  needn't  tell 
anyone. 

As  clear  as  today  it  now  rises  before  me.  It  stands  high  at  the  very  beginning 
of  memory — That  Saturday  afternoon.  The  scene  as  I  first  saw  it — when  my 
Aunt  called  quickly — "Oh  look!  what  can  it  mean?  See  all  those  children  coming," 
and  I  ran  with  the  others  to  the  door,  to  behold  what  to  my  vision  was  a  regiment 
of  white  frocked  children!  I  sec  now  those  colored  Bashes  and  switching  skirts, 
and  feel  the  same  astonished  sensation — inexplicable  and  dreamlike  for  the  moment, 
while  I  looked  Oil  breathlessly  as  they  reached  the  house,  fully  forty  in  number 
when  all  the  dillcrent  companies  arrived.  And  1  have  not  so  much  as  forgot  ten 
the  shining  faces,  or  my  sudden  shyness  as  my  astonished  Mother  and  Aunts  who 
had  time  for  no  single  inquiry,  made  them  doubtless  as  welcome  and  comloi  table 

as  conditions  and  circumstances  permitted. 

The  spirit  of  adventure  is  of  great  assistance  to  disobedience,  ami  there  was  no 
piely  within  to  disturb  me  at  that  moment.  "A  party — a  real  parts.'"  1  had  a 
real    party.      And  my  little  dishes.      It    was  enough      bliss  could    mount    no   higher. 

In 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


What  secret  feeling  in  me  ascended  to  its  throne?  What  nascent  delight  in  hospital- 
ity had  birth?  What  happiness  in  having  and  giving  brought  colour  to  the  cheeks, 
and  warmed  a  little  heart  that  heard  a  hundred  jubilant  notes  and  not  one  discord 
as  the  enchanting  afternoon  began?  It  might  have  been  imaginary  music  that  sang 
within — No  forebodings — No  shadows  crowded  thickly,  the  disregarded  Mother's 
directions  penetrated  to  no  secret  chamber  of  memory.  Oh  the  merry  hours! 
the  gladness  of  my  first  party,  with  no  fears  of  a  price  to  be  paid  or  that  a  pro- 
foundly significant  lesson  must  be  taught.  Pride  and  pleasure  ran  a  race  as  we 
shouted  and  played,  and  my  kind  Aunts,  proficent  in  ways  to  entertain,  made  the 
hours  fly. 

I  lived  in  so  rich  a  present  there  was  nothing  to  be  desired,  until  opening  a  door 
into  the  dining-room,  eager  for  my  "little  dishes"  to  be  displayed,  my  eyes  beheld 
a  place  alive  with  curious  preparations.  Lo!  the  big  table  was  spread  with  many 
dishes,  the  pyramidal  centre-piece  with  apples,  and  I  saw  cakes  and  candies  and 
nuts  and  raisins  as  I  peered  eagerly,  and  then  rushed  to  the  door  from  which  steps 
descended  to  the  kitchen. 

There  was  my  Mother  sitting  before  the  slanting  cellar  door,  in  her  lap  a  flat- 
iron  with  hammer  raised  above  the  nuts  to  be  cracked.  She  looked  up  as  I  looked 
down,  the  naughty  little  girl  standing  on  the  top  step  smiling!  "Mother,  Mother, 
where  are  my  little  dishes,  Can't  I  have  my  little  dishes?"  and  something  in  her 
stern  glance  turned  my  eyes  to  busy  Mahaly  spreading  with  butter  and  sugar 
the  thin  slices  of  bread.  What  did  it  all  mean?  all  this  activity  and  haste  so  mani- 
fest. It  was  odd  and  menacing.  I  had  never  before  seen  excitement  apparent, 
and  I  stared  and  repeated  eagerly — "You  said  I  could  have  my  little  dishes." 
One  sudden  look — and  fright  stirred  and  hurt.  "You  are  a  naughty  girl,  you  will 
not  have  your  little  dishes  for  a  long  time.  You  have  been  disobedient — You 
will  be  punished  when  the  little  girls  have  gone."  As  if  I  had  known  punishment 
instead  of  indulgence  all  my  six  years  I  shivered — terror  for  a  second  shadowed 
and  enveloped  me  as  I  backed  swiftly  out  of  sight  and  returned  to  the  merry  throng. 
The  terror  was  unreal,  the  party  was  real,  and  the  feast  that  followed  reassuring. 
But  as  dusk  descended  the  ghost  of  fear  spoke  insistently — Don't  go  yet,  please; 
don't  go,  please  don't — as  they  trooped  away  in  smiling  groups,  well  filled  and  well 
pleased  and  with  no  penalties  or  explanations  to  meet  or  make. 

As  the  last  one  was  departing,  one  little  stranger,  the  guest  of  a  friend  who 
brought  her,  thanked  me  prettily  for  being  allowed  to  come,  and  gave  me  a  sense 
of  surprised  gratification  and  new  importance.  At  that  moment  the  intervening 
door  opened  and  I  heard  the  ominous  call  repeated,  as  I  hung  defiantly  back,  until 
without  one  further  word  my  hand  was  grasped  and  dragging  feet  could  no  ionger 
help  me.  Into  the  adjacent  bed-room  we  passed,  and  I  remember  even  a  curious 
creaking  of  the  hinges  as  the  door  closed.  I  remember  how  the  carved  Bureau 
mirror  reflected  my  Mother's  face  as  in  a  fog — And  how  I  screamed  and  screamed. 
It  was  the  first  hurt  of  my  little  life,  my  first  punishment.  With  a  firm  hand 
castigation  of  a  primative  sort  was  being  administered.  The  spanking  was  not 
severe  in  fact  but  terrible  in  fancy,  and  as  I  felt  each  deliberate  stroke  I  writhed 
in  futile  rebellion  and  a  sense  of  injury.  I  had  not  realized  my  offence — its  weight 
or  measure  could  not  appeal  without  adequate  explanation.  I  shrieked  again  and 
again  thinking  to  lessen  deserved  pain — My  Mother's  gentle  hand  had  become  a 
sledge-hammer  to  me. 

That  same  little  uninvited  visitor  who  came  with  her  cousin  rose  like  salvation 
to  save  me! — "Oh  Mother,  I  didn't  invite  Teresa  Foot,  I  didn't  invite  Teresa 
Foot,  /  didn't,  I  didn't"  over  and  over  as  each  fresh  stroke  fell. 

Ah'  that  deep  intuitive  feeling  that  excuses  and  paliates  and  believes  that  the 
climax  of  full  criminality  not  having  been  reached,  Justice  should  be  stayed.  But 
I  sought  redress  in  vain,  and  I  realize  again  that  stubborn  resistance  of  spirit, 
of  outraged  pride.  I  was  not  toned  to  repentance  or  to  any  clear  understanding 
of  the  nature  of  my  disobedience, — Why!  I  had  not  invited  Teresa  Foot,  whose 
name  I  will  remember  as  I  do  my  own,  and  as  long — and  I  had  not  had  my  little 
dishes. 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


My  face  all  wet  with  tears  under  its  heavy  curls  was  lifted  at  last.  Never 
mind  little  girl,  it  is  all  over. 

The  storm  the  Lake  threatened  had  burst  and  passed. 

THE    CHRISTMAS    MESSAGE 

December  24,  1849 

THE  LITTLE  GIRL  watched  her  Father.  He  sat  before  the  fire  in  the  big 
chair,  his  feet  stretched  out,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  bright  flames.  Why  was  he  so 
still?  They  had  made  much  noise,  she  thought,  at  the  table.  It  was  her  Father's 
Birthday.  She  had  been  allowed  to  sit  up  for  late  supper.  She  was  very  proud 
and  happy  and  had  tried  to  understand  the  stories,  and  why  they  laughed  so  hard 
while  the  young  Aunt  said  many  things  and  looked  so  pretty. 

"Father  I  am  glad  you  had  a  Birthday"  she  said,  and  sidled  close  up  to  his 
knee.  "I  am  glad  you  had  a  Birthday  Father"  she  repeated,  as  he  looked  down 
and  smiled  his  beautiful  smile.  "I  will  tell  my  little  girl  of  a  more  wonderful 
Birthday"  he  answered,  lifting  her  to  his  knee  and  putting  strong  arms  about  her. 
But  she  felt  a  little  pain  as  he  explained  slowly  that  there  was  no  real  Santa  Claus 
that  came  down  chimneys,  that  the  pretty  piece  she  had  learned  about  his  Rein- 
deer and  the  bells  on  the  sleigh,  and  the  pack  of  presents  for  good  children,  was 
all  only  a  picture,  made  to  show  little  and  big  ones  how  lovely  it  was  to  give  and 
celebrate  the  Birthday  of  the  The  Christ-Child  by  helping  to  make  everybody 
happy. 

So  was  the  sweet  and  sacred  Story  of  Manger  and  Infant  Jesus  and  Wise  Men 
travelling  far,  and  the  beautiful  Star  shining  and  showing  the  way  to  where  the 
Young  Child  lay,  gently  told  me  and  the  Christmas  message  repeated. — "Peace 
on  Earth,  Good  Will  to  Men,"  spoken  softly.  Say  it  dear,  "Peace  on  Earth, 
Good  Will  to  Men".  He  told  me  of  an  indescribable  light  that  shone  on  the 
Child's  face,  and  made  the  Wise  Men  kneel  and  lay  gifts  before  Him.  And  so 
Christmas  was  the  time  for  ever  to  love  our  friends  and  give  gifts. 

"Why  it's  your  Birthday  too",  I  said,  "Oh  Father  you  were  born  with  the 
little  Jesus" — "No,  Oh  no,  only  on  his  Birthday  to  learn  to  love  him  more,"  he 
answered.  And  as  his  dear  eyes  met  mine  they  were  charged  with  some  message 
he  could  not  utter,  and  I  was  silent  with  the  inarticulate  yearning  of  childhood. 

Almost  three  quarters  of  a  century  since  the  revelations  of  that  Christmas 
Eve,  and  I  can  summon  back  the  new  feelings  about  Santa  Claus  and  the  Christ 
Child  as  I  said  my  prayers  that  night,  and  was  put  to  bed  in  the  small  Hall  bed- 
room out  of  the  large  one,  where  I  had  been  moved  two  years  before,  when  the 
brother  beloved  of  a  life-time  first  opened  his  eyes  on  earth.  Often  I  had  been 
lonely  there,  and  often  frightened. 

So  far  it  seemed  from  Father  and  Mother  and  the  baby  boy  who  slept  in  my 
place.  The  Lake  made  a  loud  song  at  night.  Sometimes  it  shook  the  bed  and 
called  out,  and  I  hid  under  the  clothes,  and  I  heard  cries  when  great  waves  broke 
and  said  angry  words  in  a  language  I  tried  to  understand.  Voices  that  Christmas 
night  seemed  to  come  nearer  and  nearer — "Peace  on  Earth,  Peace  on  Earth", 
softer  and  softer. 

All    suddenly    I    awoke    from    childhood's    slumber   and    dreaming    its    dreams. 

I  started  up  in  the  darkness — "I  must  see  what  Santa  Claus  brought"?  No  there 
was  no  Santa  Claus  on  y  a  cold  wind  blowing  in  my  face,  and  around  me  all  the 
mysterious  darkness  of  midnight,  its  vastness,  its  silence,  its  loneliness.  1  can 
recall  only  my  swift  action,  but  1  can  still  feel  the  cold  nighl  air  blowing  on  my 
face  as  I  saw  I  he  while  moonlight  filtering  over  the  floor.  The  sound  ot  waxes 
breaking  on   snow  and   ice-banks  called   to  me  out   of  the  great    waste  oi   waters. 

II  w.i     m     I;  1    I   Christmas  message      "Come  and  see!     Come  and  see"? 

I   crept   out  of  bed      Oh,  very  BOftly,  and  softly  on  hands  and  knees   1  crawled 

Btealthilj  through  the  ever  open  door.  1  have  not  forgotten  so  much  as  the  pat- 
tern on   the  carpet   or  the   faint   glimmer  of  the   night    lamp,   but    how    dark   looked 

the  alcove,  how  long  and    trar      the  shadows,  and  hovi  fat  to  that  fireplace  where 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


from  the  mantelpiece  hung  two  stockings.  The  low  windows  let  in  a  faint  glim- 
mer, and  as  the  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  its  wavering  shadow,  I  stood  erect  both 
hands  outstretched — I  must  find  what  was  left  for  me.  No  one  awoke  to  be  aware 
of  the  little  daughters  search  as  she  felt,  in  a  tremor  of  delight,  the  larger  stocking. 
Yet  even  as  she  stood  the  chill  that  has  no  name  swept  over  her.  A  clutch  at  the 
heart — a  fear  that  made  for  pause.  There  must  have  been  a  faint  stirring,  a 
suggestion  of  honour  or  principle  that  fought  with  curiosity  and  desire  but  could 
not  conquer  it.  Once  again  with  lingering  loving  touch  she  felt  the  outline  of 
well  filled  stockings.  Her  cold  numb  feet  hitting  something  solid  beneath,  she 
dropped  to  the  floor  to  feel  for  the  first  time  in  life  the  joy  of  handling  books. 
It  was  a  gloating  delight.  She  lifted  and  hugged  them.  Those  small  books  were 
all  hers.  All  her  very  own.  She  held  them  tight  in  her  arms  until  the  stir  of  the 
sleepers,  or  the  icy  chill,  sent  the  little  Trespasser  shivering  to  hide  under  the 
blankets,  and  fall  happily  to  sleep. 

Was  I  the  victim  of  an  excited  imagination?  My  intelligence  was  not  ad- 
vanced for  my  years,  only  the  power  to  read  had  come  without  conscious  effort. 
Over  a  year  before,  when  only  five,  my  Mother  had  taken  me  to  a  neighbouring 
Dame  School,  and  I  sat  in  a  little  Rocker  she  had  purchased,  while  all  the  other 
little  scholars  superior  in  years,  if  not  in  attainment,  were  at  desks  or  on  benches. 
They  seemed  many  to  me — and  the  Teacher  very  cross.  I  trembled  when  she 
sent  the  noisy  or  naughty  children  to  stand  in  corners,  and  sometimes  even  put 
a  tall  cap  on  them  and  made  them  sit  on  a  high  stool  before  everyone.  I  cried 
sometimes,  but,  as  the  very  youngest  and  littlest,  she  pointed  to  me  often  as  the 
child  who  learned  to  read  so  fast  and  loved  all  stories.  Oh!  that  little  Rocking 
chair,  from  which  I  saw  and  felt,  and  had  those  first  shrinking  impressions  of 
discipline  and  severity!  The  inexpressible  dread  and  the  vivid  interest  of  those 
first  school  days — and  the  dislike  of  the  loud  voiced  teacher. 

But  that  Christmas  Eve  I  had  found  what  was  left  for  me.  Yes,  while  Father 
and  Mother  and  little  Brother  slept  peacefully,  I  had  found  my  treasures.  I  had 
not  waited — I  could  not  wait.  The  burning  ardour  in  me  to  see,  to  discover,  to 
enjoy  without  delay,  had  fought  the  icy  breath  of  winter  itself.  I  have  never 
waited  willingly  from  that  day  to  this,  I  have  seized  my  joys.  It  was  the  hope 
and  eagerness  in  me  then,  and  long  years  were  to  intervene  before  learning  to 
hold  them  in  check  and  to  conquer  impetuous  action. 

In  the  morning  when  I  was  shaken  awake  and  heard  the  "Merry  Christmas" 
calls,  and  saw  little  Horace  playing  with  rattle  and  coloured  worsted  ball  I  felt  no 
excitement.  Had  I  been  dreaming?  No.  There  before  the  fire  hung  my  stocking, 
and  under  the  window  the  pile  of  little  books.  And  never,  never  until  that  moment 
when  I  held  those  little  books  in  the  dark  night,  had  I  known  the  rapture  of  dis- 
covery, or  the  enchanted  silence  of  the  night. 

THE    FATE    OF    LIARS 

June,  1850. 

THE  LITTLE  GIRL  sat  under  the  Lilac  bushes  that  clustered  together  to 
form  the  hedge  shutting  the  street  from  view.  Above  her  head  green  leaves  shook 
gently,  and  the  great  purple  blossoms  seemed  to  rise  and  fall  and  breathe  out 
sweetness.  The  glad  voice  of  her  little  brother  joined  in  joyous  chorus  with  bright 
soft  wings  and  sweet  scents  everywhere,  and  a  quiver  of  light  that  sang  with  the 
birds.  That  miraculous  day,  all  flowery  and  intoxicating  like  childhood's  hap- 
piness! And  the  air  so  heavy  with  the  breath  of  lilacs,  a  peculiar  tenacious  sweet- 
ness, which  only  later  years  could  teach  her  was  the  very  essence  of  Spring. 

The  little  brother  on  the  grass  among  his  toys  seemed  also  aware  of  blossoms 
and  perfume  and  shouted  in  the  soft  summer  air  until  sister  gave  him  a  big  spray 
to  play  with.  The  book  in  her  lap  had  fallen  face  downward  on  the  carpet  of  green 
that  stretched  from  door  to  gate  and  all  about  the  yard.  The  sky  of  flowery 
blue  bent  lovingly  above  them,  for  theirs  was  a  blessed  heritage,  and  the  two 
children  were  being  raised  with  that  gentleness  of  love  prophetic  of  peace  and 
power  to  serve.     It  was  the  little  one  who  cried — "See  Mother"  as  she  came 

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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


smiling  towards  them  so  slim  and  tall.  Why  did  my  Mother  look  always  different 
from  other  Mothers'? — Her  hair  so  curly  soft,  her  face  so  fair,  her  gowns  so  pretty, 
and  now  she  had  on  the  hat  with  blue  feathers  that  danced  in  the  circle  of  sun- 
light and  shadow,  and  seemed  alive  as  she  stopped  before  us.  She  wore  her  fine 
lace  mantilla  too,  and  had  a  parasol,  and  told  us  she  was  going  to  make  visits, 
and  see  the  Mother  of  the  little  girls  who  lived  in  the  new  brick  house,  and  ask 
them  to  come  and  see  me.  "Take  good  care  of  your  little  brother  while  I  am 
away,  he's  only  three  you  know  and  all  the  little  son  I  have.  And  don't  go  near 
that  gate  or  open  it.  It  is  a  dirty  place  and  the  ugly  cow  lives  there." — pointing 
to  the  back  yard  cut  off  by  a  high  fence.  "No  Mother,"  was  my  swift  response, 
and  "No  Mother"  repeated  the  three  year  old  charge  sitting  beside  me.  His 
little  face  looked  up  at  her  from  under  the  mass  of  gold-brown  curls.  He  was 
a  delicate  child;  but  the  rewas  no  shyness  in  his  manner;  and  everyone  felt  the 
charm  of  his  beauty.  "Mother's  beautiful  boy,  Mother's  own  boy"  she  said, 
stooping  to  kiss  him,  endearments  I  had  heard  so  often, for  his  rare  loveliness  was 
the  pride  of  all,  and  I  had  heard  repeatedly  how  people  stopped  Mahaly  in  the 
street  to  ask  whose  child  it  was?  and  she  always  chuckled  when  she  repeated  those 
praises.  "Remember  now  to  be  very  good  and  Mother  will  not  be  long  away,  and 
looking  back  again,  "Remember  all  I  have  told  you!"  And,  "Yes,  Mother"  I 
said,  and  "Yes  Mother"  echoed  the  baby  boy,  and  played  on  happily  in  that 
June  sunshine,  while  the  sister's  book  remained  unopened. 

Fragrance  floated  all  about  to  enwrap  us  in  its  magic;  but  strangely  I  grew 
restless  and  curious,  those  emphatic  orders  strangely  disquieted  me.  Why  couldn't 
I  see  just  through  the  gate  if  the  cow  had  come  home?  It  was  a  nice  back  yard 
with  a  big  tree  in  it,  and  the  branches  came  down  low.  I  walked  very  slowly  to 
the  gate,  and  childish  imagination  made  a  fascinating  picture  that  lured  me  to 
push  it  open — just  a  little  bit!  Something  called  loudly  as  fancy  picked  out  won- 
derful spots  in  that  forbidden  cow-yard.  Like  other  dreamers,  something  within 
conspired  to  make  her  forget  orders,  to  push  the  gate  wide,  to  peer  in  every  cor- 
ner and  between  slats  on  one  side,  as  she  stepped  within,  she  saw  the  pretty  next 
door  garden  where  little  Lily  Scammon  was  playing. 

The  sun  was  no  more  joyous  than  she  as  she  set  her  little  feet  upon  the  lowest 
branch  of  the  old  gnarled  oak.  The  tree  cast  slanting  shadows;  She  was  not  afraid — 
she  was  exultant  and  there  were  no  foes  within  or  without  to  terrify  her.  She 
had  visions  to  conjure  with,  as  forgetting  all  troubles  she  began  to  climb  higher 
when  a  little  voice  called  gleefully — "Take  me  up,  Take  me  up  too".  The  shock 
brought  the  disobedient  sister  to  earth  to  see  little  Horace  standing  in  the  filth 
of  the  place,  proud  and  smiling,  both  little  hands  stretched  high. 

As  smoke  tries  to  reach  the  skies  and  falls,  so  she  fell  to  learn  of  trouble  untasted 
before!  She  was  not  repentant,  she  listened  to  no  voice  of  conscience  or  duty, 
but  she  was  miserable;  and  hurried  back  only  in  time  to  hear  the  carriage  stop. 
And  the  Mother  come  out  suddenly  like  a  gigantic  shape!  Without  one  word  she 
pointed  to  our  shoes.  That  look  again,  that  strange  look  that  greatly  hurt,  that 
she  had  seen  once  before  in  her  Mother's  eyes  when  she  had  asked  for  her  "Little 
Dishes".  It  was  sharp  and  piercing  now  and  at  the  steady  gaze  she  paled  in  fright. 
"You  have  disobeyed  Mother.  You  took  little  Horace  into  that  yard" — All 
softness  and  tenderness  gone  from  look  or  voice. 

The  tide  of  feeling  rising  high  threatened  to  submerge  mc,  and  I  was  suddenly 
hurled  into  a  mad  whirl  of  fear.  "No — No — No — I  cried,  Mother  1  did  not.' 
I  was  rudely  taught  by  something  within  to  adjust  myself  to  harsh  contrasts  01 
life,  to  the  dark  side  of  deceit  and  disobedience.  The  ease  of  falsehood,  first  show- 
ing itself  as  means  of  escape  lo  a  child  who  had  before  known  only  love  and  truth. 
"YOU  have  told  Mother  a  lie,"  and  eyes  were  fixed  on  me  from  which  all  softness 

had  fled.    My  Mother  was  suddenly  a  mystery.     Her  voice  too  was  different — 

"( }o  to  your  Fat  her's  room      Shut  the  door  ami  stay  until  he  comes.     Go  at  once!" 

There  was  a  damp  chill  in  the  room  that    I  do  not   forget,  or  that  as  the  hours 

ed   the   rain   began   to  drum   on   the   roof  and   splash    upon   the   windows.     The 

I. ake  became  Significant   in  it'-  noise  and  nearness;  the  wind  began  blowing  a  gale; 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


low  lying  mists  were  travelling  quickly  as  the  light  faded  from  the  sky.  The 
sound  of  the  Lake  like  the  wild  whir  of  leaves  had  strange  threats.  It  was  a  dim 
night  and  the  twilight  very  long.  I  had  thought  nothing  out,  I  only  waited.  I 
had  acted  on  deep  seated  impulse  and  many  experiences  come  back  to  me,  thrust 
me  back  into  the  agonizing  emotions  of  childhood  and  frustrated  desires,  into 
dreams — dreams — and  waking  ones  indivisible  as  daily  life.  Images  come  back 
to  me  and  events  shake  me  even  now,  for  mine  is  a  heart  that  cherishes  memory. 

Presently  I  heard  the  step  upon  the  stairs,  ascending,  drawing  near, — heavily 
it  sounded.  Never  shall  I  forget  that  first  startled  impression.  How  large  and 
strange  and  grave  and  terrifying!  He  had  in  hand  a  book  and  a  long  switch. 
Did  it  come  from  the  biggest  Lilac  bush  that  had  great  roots  and  strong  branches? 
He  laid  it  down  on  the  table  near.  My  heart  beat  very  fast  at  my  Father's  look. 
There  was  oppression  in  the  air  and  a  threat  that  stirred  to  fright.  Suddenly  he 
opened  his  arms  and  the  sorrow  and  tenderness  in  his  face  I  can  see  again  and 
again  as  he  lifted  me  close,  and  I  burst  into  a  passion  of  crying. 

He  waited  patiently  till  the  tempest  of  tears  should  pass,  and  the  tearing  sobs 
that  shook  the  little  body  cease,  and  then  opening  the  Bible  read  the  verses — 
"He  that  overcometh  shall  inherit  all  things.  I  shall  be  his  God  and  he  shall  be 
my  son; — but  the  unbelieving  and  idolaters  and  all  liars  shall  have  their  part  in 
the  Lake  which  burneth  with  fire  and  brimstone,  which  is  the  second  death."  My 
little  girl  did  not  know  how  terrible  it  was  to  lie?  God  is  our  Father — He  hates 
a  lie.  It  would  break  Mother's  heart  to  have  her  little  girl  a  liar — Liars' — Why 
listen  to  the  Fate  of  Liars.  "All  liars  shall  have  their  part  in  the  Lake  which 
burneth  with  fire  and  brimstone,  which  is  the  second  death."  I  was  curiously 
fascinated  by  the  picture  of  a  burning  fiery  Lake.  My  nascent  dramatic  sense 
immediately  painted  it,  and  I  kept  whispering  to  myself,  "The  Fate  of  Liars — 
The  Fate  of  Liars",  while  my  Father  prayed  his  lovely  prayer  to  his  God  of  Love 
to  forgive  his  child  who  would  try  never  to  lie  again.  And  the  forgiveness  blesses 
me  now  as  if  I  had  gone  to  Heaven  which  I  felt  was  all  about  me  as  he  prayed. 

I  clung  happily  as  we  passed  from  the  room,  restored  and  comforted  by  that 
Child  of  the  Most  High — My  Father, — who  was  teaching  me  that  humiliation 
and  shame  attached  to  falsehood.  The  crime  of  telling  a  lie  had  been  impressed 
upon  a  mind  that  worked  quickly.  I  began  to  understand  how  it  chokes  and  de- 
stroys. A  vivid  lesson  in  the  idea,  so  dim  at  first,  of  loyalty,  of  the  dividing  line 
between  truth  and  falsehood,  honour  and  dishonour,  which  he  illustrated  in  my 
case.  My  Father  was  a  source  of  joy  forever  after, — A  refuge — A  belief.  Some- 
thing unfelt,  unknown,  yet  intimate  and  close  stirred  warmly,  and  merged  again 
into  the  right  merry  humour  that  for  those  hours  had  forgotten  to  smile.  Was 
it  the  sight  of  that  unused  switch,  and  the  droll  intimation  of  the  drama  that  had 
made  him  cut  and  bring  it  before  me,  which  now  added  to  the  joy  of  escape?  Had 
he  merely  felt  the  desire  to  impress  me  by  a  suggested  punishment  that  he  never 
could  have  administered? 

My  Puritan  ancestors  some  way  left  out  the  stuff  that  makes  either  martyrs 
or  saints.  There  was  in  me  no  genius  for  suffering,  to  prolong  trouble  was  un- 
natural. I  was  soon  above  its  remembrance  even;  my  liking  was  for  laughter  and 
frolic  and  I  never  knew  then  or  since  whether  it  was  flesh  or  devil,  or  what  notion 
or  impetuosity  of  impulse  unchecked,  might  lie  in  wait  to  destroy  the  soul  I  had  not 
understood  I  possessed.  Joy  and  gaiety  the  native  quality  quickly  expressed 
itself,  as,  afraid  no  longer  that  memorable  night,  gladness  and  cheer  returning, 
father  and  child  descended  the  stairs  together. 

"I  like  to  be  lively,  Father.  You  know  I  like  to  be  lively,"  I  said  simply 
clinging  to  his  hand,  tears  wet  on  my  lashes;  but  joy  in  my  heart. 

The  years  go  by  and  explain  many  vital  facts  patiently,  and  I  was  slowly 
succumbing  without  knowledge  or  clear  recognition  to  the  magic  of  beauty  and 
the  love  of  truth. 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


THE    GOOSEBERRY     FEAST 

August  1850. 

THE  LITTLE  GIRL  stood  listening,  puzzled  but  glad.  Her  Mother  was 
speaking  brightly,  describing  three  nice  little  girls  who  lived  in  the  new  brick 
house  on  the  same  Avenue  with  us.  She  told  their  ages,  their  pretty  names,  Delia 
and  Frank  and  Eva.  And  how  the  lady  who  had  just  called  wanted  me  to  spend 
that  afternoon  with  her  young  daughters.  We  were  neighbours,  and  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  get  acquainted,  and  I  must  be  very  quiet  and  gentle,  and  behave  very 
nicely,  and  make  them  all  like  to  have  me  come  again. 

It  is  so  easy  to  entertain  children,  and  love  can  find  the  way  to  interpret  a 
child's  feelings  where  education  and  discipline  may  be  alike  powerless.  I  had 
listened  breathlessly,  particularly  when  my  Mother  said  that  "She  thought  that 
there  was  to  be  a  little  feast,"  and  all  these  recollections  crowd  now  into  my  mind 
— for  that  one  afternoon,  little  as  I  could  imagine  it,  held  for  me  a  soul-stirring 
excitement.  Life  before  had  never  offered  me  any  provocation,  temptation,  or 
opportunity,  for  the  uncontrollable  primitive  passion  of  anger,  and  my  own  training 
had  so  far  developed  a  fearless  gaiety  and  cheerful  confidence. 

And  great  was  my  pride  when  on  that  soft  summer  afternoon  I  was  taken  to 
the  large  brick  house  as  an  invited  guest.  It  was  all  so  beautiful  to  me,  the  enchant- 
ing day,  and  everywhere  an  articulate  language  to  which  my  ears  had  become 
attuned.  The  flower  bedecked  earth,  that  overarching  sky  and  singing  Lake  both 
of  ecstatic  blue,  and  those  white  feathery  clouds  when  one  looked  up  into  the 
glorious  brightness. 

I  wonder  a  great  deal  about  this  mysterious  cavern  of  memory  that  enables 
me  now  to  set  down  in  exact  truth  the  disloyalty  to  hospitality,  the  absence  of 
kindness,  and  the  vision  that  I  saw  of  one  sister  leading  two  others  into  deceit 
and  a  practice  of  lying;  a  meanness  of  treachery  that  they  were  too  young  to 
understand.  I  record  it  all  here,  incredible  as  it  seems  that  a  well  grown  girl  of 
a  refined  family  could  treat  a  guest  so  much  younger  with  such  deliberate  deceit, 
and  a  malicious  enjoyment  that  added  cruelty  to  the  act.  If  parental  training  is 
lacking,  it  is  a  pity  that  in  the  curriculum  of  all  schools  there  is  no  supplement  for 
a  course  in  courtesy  and  kindness.  Happily  tragedies  are  soon  forgotten  when 
one  comes  of  a  good  stock,  and  life  is  rich  with  all  the  personal  relations  fortunate. 

The  back  garden  where  we  were  ushered  for  play  was  lovely  with  greenery. 
Along  its  separating  sides,  against  the  dividing  walls  that  shut  it  in,  were  heavy 
bushes.  "The  Gooseberry's  are  ripe  and  we  can  have  them"  cried  gleefully  one 
of  the  little  hostesses,  and  in  plunged  the  three  little  girls  to  pluck  and  eat  the  green 
and  yellow  berries.  "Oh'  its  a  Gooseberry  Feast" — I  said.  It  was  my  first  taste 
of  those  juicy  fruit-balls,  so  delicious  and  desirable;  but  hardly  had  the  feast  begun 
when  a  sharp  call  brought  it  to  a  sudden  termination. 

As  if  yesterday  I  can  see  the  picture.  That  high  back  porch  of  the  yellow 
brick  house,  the  big  sister  standing  clearly  outlined  at  the  top  of  the  steps;  the 
imperative  voice  as  she  swiftly  descended — "Stop  children — Stop  this  minute— 
Mother  says  so."  And  when  she  stood  beside  us  she  plunged  into  the  near  bushes 
herself,  in  search  it  seemed  for  more  of  the  delicious  fruit,  and  1  thought  she  was 
joining  us  in  the  feast.  Emerging  with  a  smile  she  called — "Here  Ncanic — Come 
— Here's  a  big  one — Come  and  get  it."  Her  closed  hand  was  extended  "Shut 
your  eyes  and  open  your  mouth" — But  an  intuitive  fear,  an  instinctive  dread 
made  me  stand  back. "Hut  it's  a  nice  one  for  you — I  lcrc  Eva  come — Look — Isn't 
it  fine?"  ami   she   half  opened   the  curved   hand   to  show   its  contents.      As   1    still 

hesitated     "Look  Frank,—  See    Such  a  tine  gooseberry,"  as  she  beckoned  to  the 

wide-eyed  little  sister,  ami  both  had  nodded  at  her  command.     Onee  more  eo.ixine.lv 

she  renewed  the  tempting  offer    "Now  shut  tight  and  open  wide,"  and  the  greedy 

little   \  il  i'"i   a  implied   in   fait  li. 

Oh  the  feel oi  thai  strange,  dreadful  furried  substance!  its  swift  spitting  forth; 
the  Bighi  "i  thai  hairy  writhing  \\ei  caterpillar  as  it  dropped  at  her  feel     huge  it 

..iu'-l    .1      ■Mine    nightmare    horror      and    somewhere    there    was    a    hurst    ol    loud 
Pagi  id 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


laughter!  Hot  and  acrid  was  the  taste  in  my  mouth,  a  strangling  sensation  of 
awful  nausea.  Then  a  blur  before  my  eyes,  and  a  strange  faintness  of  mind  and 
body  that  for  a  second  made  me  dumb  in  a  paralysis  of  terror,  while  self-centered 
callousness  again  expressed  itself  in  cries  of  amusement  and  riotous  laughter. 

I  think  I  said  no  words  aloud,  but  something  within  shrieked  and  cried  out — 
"It  was  a  lie — She  lied — Liar7  Liar'  The  Fate  of  Liars"  and  screaming  and  panting, 
notwithstanding  sudden  overtures  from  the  startled  trio,  the  little  victim  rushed 
round  the  walk;  away,  away  out  of  that  place,  down  the  street  sobbing,  and  running 
wildly  to  the  home-gate  to  fall  into  her  astonished  Mother's  arms,  and  to  relate 
between  gasping  sobs  the  terrible  tale  of  her  own  undoing.  Washing  the  child's 
hot  cheeks  wet  with  tears,  the  Mother  made  no  reproaches,  pointed  no  moral, 
made  no  comments  on  lies  and  deceits.  To  this  day,  and  for  all  days,  the  simple 
words  stand  forth  as  law — "We  will  go  no  more  to  the  little  Gurney's.  That  is 
finished.'''' 

THE     EAVESDROPPER 

September  1851. 

THE  LITTLE  GIRL  was  in  her  secret  place.  The  long  curtain  hung  in  con- 
cealing folds;  and  with  feet  drawn  under  she  cuddled  herself  into  the  corner  of 
the  window  seat.  She  had  discovered  and  fled  to  that  hiding  place  several  times 
of  late,  especially  when  she  feared  to  be  called  upon  to  help  look  after  baby  George. 
The  new  little  brother,  a  rosy-cheeked  blue-eyed  baby  with  a  mop  of  golden  curls, 
seemed  always  sunny  and  smiling.  Since  his  advent  nearly  a  year  ago,  Horace  of 
four  had  grown  fast,  was  big  by  comparison,  and  was  fond  enough  of  baby  brother 
to  amuse  him  by  the  hour:  but  more  and  more  the  sister's  life  became  peopled 
with  fancies  and  new  interests.  She  cared  less  and  less  for  romping  and  playing 
with  the  children.  She  had  no  sisters  to  keep  her  company;  but  lately  a  little  girl 
of  her  own  age  had  become  almost  one  of  the  family,  and  Mother  had  said  she 
would  soon  be  our  cousin  Joe.  So  we  two  had  often  run  away  from  the  inflicted 
cares  of  service,  and  left  to  Nurse  Mahaly  and  little  Horace,  the  task  of  caring  for 
Baby  when  Mother  was  otherwise  occupied,  and  the  Aunts  busy  with  their  many 
pleasures  and  many  visitors. 

Since  the  young  lady,  Miss  Kate  Cutting,  had  been  visiting  my  Aunts  there 
always  seemed  more  company  coming  and  going,  and  much  gaiety  and  pleasure 
seeking,  and  I  felt  the  livliest  interest  in  all  the  bright  and  attractive  things  about 
my  home.     I  was  easily  enchanted  and  quickened. 

There,  hidden  behind  the  curtain  the  book  in  my  lap  remained  unopened. 
Eyes  rested  idly  on  its  title — "The  Priest  and  the  Huguenot" — my  thoughts  all  on 
an  hour  of  the  day  before,  when  seated  comfortably  by  the  window  looking  out 
upon  the  Lake,  the  trees  all  yellowing  and  clouds  drifting  slowly  and  softly,  some- 
thing in  the  air  stirred  in  the  blood. 

I  had  heard  queer  comments  on  myself  that  now  came  freshly  back.  One  of 
my  Aunts  had  quietly  approached  and  beckoned  to  the  other — I  had  not  noticed 
until  both  leaned  over  me  and  one  in  a  whisper  exclaimed — She  is  reading  "The 
Preacher  and  the  King",  and  the  other  under  breath  "How  can  Cornelia  let  this 
young  one  read  everything  she  lays  her  hands  on."  And  the  first  replied,  "It  will 
be  "The  Priest  and  the  Huguenot"  next — Why  on  earth  can't  she  be  satisfied  with 
Fairy  stories  like  other  children?" — And  that  sent  me  to  search  far  and  wide, 
in  closets  and  bureau  drawers,  for  the  present  volume  that  someway  did  not  suit 
the  dreamy  loveliness  of  the  afternoon.  Everywhere  a  tremulous  whisper  of  Aut- 
umn in  the  air,  and  breezes  rippling  the  surface  of  the  Lake. 

The  familiar  thing  that  a  child  wonders  at  or  loves  becomes  a  charm  throughout 
life.  And  my  Lake,  the  Ocean,  great  bodies  of  water,  are  to  me  vivid  in  beauty  and 
power  beyond  even  the  mighty  mountains.  The  Lake,  born  as  I  was  within  sound 
of  its  waves,  often  made  me  breathless  and  jubilant  as  a  child,  and  has  been  to  me 
a  whole  Orchestra  and  Picture  Gallery  ever  since.  Imagination  has  its  uses  at 
every  age.    It  creates — It  intensifies — It  delights.    My  world  never  seemed  small 

Page  17 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


to  me  because  I  was  always  happy;  but  a  growing  mind  reached  out  from  my 
unchanging  world  for  other  things  than  the  simple  days  afforded,  and  I  found  them 
in  romances — in  my  books. 

When  I  began  a  new  one  it  was  with  a  brightness  of  anticipation  and  the  en- 
trancing tales  seemed  true  as  the  life  about  me.  New  delights  unfolded  understood 
or  not;  fresh  joys  always  awaited  me  in  reading,  and  just  that  early  period  had 
much  significance.  I  recall  absurd  lines  I  made,  queer  little  efforts  at  high  expres- 
sion— There  was  one — "An  Ode  to  Lake  Michigan"  which  my  family  greeted 
with  amusement  that  I  sensed  and  resented.  A  child  learns  early  to  keep  her 
thoughts  to  herself.  She  cannot  explain  that  which  grips  and  urges  her  to  expres- 
sion or  action.  She  knows  nothing  of  the  sequence  of  things  in  life.  In  that  un- 
disciplined stage  of  childhood  to  secure  information  and  satisfy  curiosity  seems 
an  inevitable  accompaniment  of  strange  processes  of  feeling  that  defy  analysis. 

I  was  just  then  feeling  a  curious  hostility  to  criticism  of  my  Mother,  or  of  my 
reading — I  did  like  Fairy  stories — Not  silly  ones  like  "Jack  the  Giant  Killer"  or 
"Little  Red  Riding-hood"  and  many  like  them,  in  small  books  with  foolish  pictures; 
but  I  loved  when  the  Fairy  Prince  came  and  kissed  Sleeping  Beauty,  and  I  loved 
"Pilgrim's  Progress",  and  "The  Arabian  Night's",  and  "Days  of  Bruce". 

/  loved  words — the  music  of  words — and  had  found  an  entrancing  diversion 
very  early  in  the  printed  page.  To  child  as  to  adult  there  flood  entrancing  fancies 
in  which  one  lives;  and  often  in  a  spell  I  would  repeat  whole  sentences  that  had 
magic  in  them,  over  and  over  to  myself.  And  that  evening  words  of  the  printed 
page  were  whispering  in  my  ears:  all  about  me  the  sweetness  the  mystic  whisperings 
of  wild  life  of  Romance  beyond  all  comprehension;  and  strange  music  sounded 
afar  off,  strange  surging  sounds  inaudible  to  other  ears. 

As  the  twilight  came  on,  the  stir  of  entrance  made  me  peep  through  the  con- 
cealing curtain  to  behold  my  pretty  Aunt  Helen,  and  the  tall,  thin  Father  of  the 
two  little  Davidson's  who  lived  round  the  corner.  He  had  lately  come  very  often 
to  our  house,  and  many  others  to  call  and  make  merry.  The  two  in  the  sitting- 
room,  after  my  instant  recognition,  passed  out  of  mind  for  a  little;  the  talk  going 
on  so  near  me  had  not  reached  me  at  first.  I  had  no  conscious  interest  or  intention 
to  spy  and  listen.  Indeed  I  did  not  know  what  such  a  course  meant,  although 
I  had  heard  them  say  several  times  that  "Little  Pitchers  have  big  ears"  whenever 
I  came  suddenly  into  view.  Yet  their  gaiety,  their  talk  of  lovers,  and  various 
adventures  related  to  my  parents  had  stirred  the  nascent  romance  in  me — and  I 
had  tried  to  understand  when  Mother  told  me  Miss  Kate  was  engaged  to  my 
Uncle  William,  and  that  they  would  be  married  before  long,  and  then  I  would 
have  another  Aunt;  just  as  she  had  told  me  that  Aunt  Margaret,  when  she  came 
back  from  Grandfather's, — her  home  in  Maine, — was  going  to  live  with  little  Joe 
Evans  and  her  Father. 

So  my  mind  worked.  I  strive  to  gather  in  and  remember  the  vision  that,  at 
a  louder  spoken  sentence,  gave  me  a  thrill  of  adventure,  and  stirred  suddenly- 
vague  impressions  to  distinct  sight  and  sound.  My  pulse  quickened  to  the  vibration 
in  his  voice.    Exuberant  romance  in  me  was  about  to  be  satisfied. 

Children  seem  to  me  to  have  a  queer  outlook  and  their  egotism  is  so  unconscious. 
They  are  often  artistic  as  well  as  sentimental.  The  first  words  I  caught  held  me 
entranced.  "I  implore  you  Miss  Gray — You  must  listen,  we  could  be  so  happy — 
They  say  love  is  blind — Mine  isn't — I  know  it, — Oh  believe  me." — I  was  instantly 
all  alert  as  he  pronounced  the  words  that  have  been  quoted  from  that  day  to  this 
in  hilarious  merriment.  "Come  with  me — We  will  spend  our  summers  in  some 
quiet  watering  place,  and  our  winters  in  the  Orange  Groves  ol  the  Sunny  South." 
My   presence   undivincd,   and   eagerness   increasing,    I    parted   the  curtain  slight ly 

and  leaned  forward  as  lie  t  remulously  continued,     For  1  hail  thrilled  as  to  a  trumpet 

— "Do  you  object  to  my  children?"  he  asked.  "No  I  object  to  you"  my  Aunt 
replied   lit   very  clear  accents,  and    I    wish   you  would   never  again     The  sentence 

remained  unfinished  for  certain  movements  caught  her  eye.    The  curtain  Bwayed 

in   my  cxciled  grasp  and   showed   B   revealing  Outline.      "Ncanic,  come  lure,"  was 

the  sharp  order,  ai  i  restfallen  I  slipped  into  view  and  moved  alowlj  forward. 


Pag0  tS 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


I  didn't  comprehend  the  comedy,  nor  the  absurdity  of  the  whole  picture  I 
helped  to  create.  The  burlesque  of  his  insistence  in  words  that  painted  what  he 
supposed  would  allure  and  tempt,  was  wholly  beyond  me.  It  sounded  beautiful 
to  me.  I  had  no  faintest  notion  that  in  futile  efforts  to  make  marriage  attractive 
he  had  made  a  fool  of  himself.  All  I  saw  or  remember  was  his  black,  angry  look  at 
me, — My  Aunt's  flushed  face,  and  the  cold  good-bye  that  imperatively  dismissed 
the  forlorn  lover. 

Just  then,  before  the  proper  reprimand  could  be  administered,  Miss  Kate  and 
my  Aunt  Margaret  appeared,  the  former  crying — "Has  that  old  bean-pole  been 
proposing  again,  he  looked  furious,  and  rushed  by  us  without  a  word."  My  own 
face  of  course  must  have  suggested  the  eavesdropper  and  told  its  own  story,  as 
eloquently  as  Aunt  Helen's  vivid  account  and  manifest  annoyance.  But  that 
could  not  save  her- — "Tell  us  Neanie,  what  did  he  say?  and  like  a  young  parrot  I 
promptly  responded, — and  peals  of  laughter  followed,  that  made  my  Father  just 
entering  the  house,  having  ridden  as  usual  on  horseback  from  his  warehouse  far 
down  on  Water  Street  look  in.  "Oh  Orrington",  cried  Aunt  Margaret,  "Listen  to 
what  old  Davidson  said,"  and  at  their  half-hysterical  demand,  I  repeated  solemnly 
— "We  will  spend  our  summers  in  some  quiet  watering  place,  and  our  winters  in 
the  Orange  Groves  of  the  Sunny  South"  and  my  Father's  hearty  laugh  encouraged 
me  to  add — and  he  did  say,  too  "Do  you  object  to  my  children?  and  Aunt  Helen 
said,  "No,  I  object  to  you," — at  which  another  burst  of  merriment  quite  convinced 
me  for  the  moment  that  I  was  of  extreme  importance  and  very  clever  too. 

Later,  alone  with  my  dear  Mother,  I  was  taken  to  task;  informed  that  I  had 
hurt  my  Aunt's  feelings,  that  I  was  not  funny;  but  had  listened  to  what  had  not 
been  intended  for  me  to  hear.  The  moral  was  sharply  pointed  that  to  listen  out 
of  sight  when  no  one  knew  it,  was  bad  every  way.  "It  was  bad  form  and  it  made 
her  ashamed.  It  was  not  kind,  not  fair,  not  honourable.  It  was  trespassing,  and 
she  never  wanted  to  think  I  could  do  such  a  thing  again."  As  a  trespasser,  I  was 
thoroughly  and  properly  humiliated;  ashamed  for  years  to  remember  the  scene 
and  my  own  share  in  it;  which,  as  a  burlesque,  was  repeated  and  reported  again 
and  again  by  the  heroine  herself,  as  one  of  the  drollest  of  all  her  experiences.  It 
became  classic  as  a  tale  of  early  days,  and  my  verbal  memory  has  kept  it  ever  clear 
so  that  I  can  recall  its  every  detail.  It  was  a  compelling  curiosity  and  longing 
that  drove  me  that  day  to  listen,  when  I  knew  instinctively  that  I  must  keep  still, 
and  not  be  found  out! 

I  dreamed  a  great  deal  at  that  period,  and  someway  in  early  childhood  one  has 
ideas  of  emancipation  or  of  freedom  from  certain  claims;  always  eager  to  grasp 
and  gain  the  centre  of  the  stage.  I  suppose  we  are  all  a  law  unto  ourselves,  and 
associate  early  the  period  of  growing  up  as  auspicious,  because  we  can  do  as  we 
choose,  without  answering  to  higher  authority  or  human  tribunal. 

And  impressions  however  vague  that  remain  with  distinctness  make  for 
mental  and  physical  development.  I  was  myself  of  pioneer  stock  and  earlier  of 
English  blood.  I  was  never  in  childhood  cramped  by  a  single  unnatural  condition; 
mine  was  an  enlivening  spirit,  and  independence  was  growingly  definite  and 
resolute.  To  some  natures  surroundings  are  just  surroundings, — no  more.  To 
certain  ones  they  become  inwoven  and  are  the  very  fabric  of  thought  and  deed. 
Always,  unknowing  it  myself,  the  felicities  of  my  simple  home  life  were  very  great, 
even  as  they  have  ever  continued,  and  will  I  pray  to  the  very  end.  There  were  no 
contending  forces  and  contentment  was  my  lot. 

THE    COMFORTING    ANSWER 

Maine  and  Massachusetts. 
1852-1855. 
It  seemed  a  long  time  that  I  was  still  with  thoughts  someway  fixed,  giving 
stealthy  looks  at  my  Grandfather's  absorbed  countenance  as  he  tapped  the  round 
table  by  his  chair,  where  decanters  and  glasses  were  in  disarray  since  the  visitors 
had  passed  out  and  I  had  crept  in.     Dignity,  hospitality,  efficiency  and  plenty 


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marked  the  household  of  which  he  was  head,  and  there  was  an  atmosphere  always 
felt  in  his  presence.  I,  his  oldest  grandchild,  only  daughter  of  his  favorite  child, 
had  always  felt  with  delight  an  instant  understanding  springing  up  between  us 
when  we  were  alone.  We  visited  yearly  in  the  old  homestead  as  I  grew  to  girlhood, 
and  I  was  puzzled  but  glad  that  my  tall  handsome  Grandfather  Gray  never  made 
me  feel  his  age  and  distinctive  haughtiness,  or  the  terror  his  pride,  dominating 
temper  and  cold  bearing  so  often  inspired.  Always  I  was  pleased  to  be  in  that 
rambling 'well  furnished,  vastly  interesting  old  home  where  my  Mother  first  saw 
the  light. 

The  house  was  set  on  a  side  hill,  or  rise,  on  a  corner  where  the  street  began 
and  climbed  a  near-by  height.  It  was  large  and  quaint,  and  had  two  entrances 
equally  important;  and  the  family  rooms  seemed  to  stretch  into  spaciousness. 
There  were  quaint  chambers  unused,  opening  out  of  the  long  shed,  and  there  was 
a  big  stable,  and  a  wonderful  garret  of  wide  spaces  under  the  sloping  roof.  The 
fine  old  furnishings  were  everywhere  striking,  and  good  food,  ample  providing, 
and  gay  company  marked  life  in  the  old  home-stead  in  that  New  England  village 
of  soft  bloom,  with  the  whole  landscape  green  and  bronze  and  gold.  There  were 
fields  and  forests  near,  and  shining  river,  and  horizons  of  dense  blue  where  the 
landmarks  seemed  to  dissolve.  The  great  sweep  of  surrounding  country  seemed 
saturated  in  light.  I  loved  its  beauty,  and  can  remember  the  exquisite  landscapes 
that  pictured  so  much  to  my  youth. 

Sometimes  it  comes  back  to  me  in  dreams,  in  waking  ones,  as  indivisible  as 
my  waking  life.  To  my  young  heart  the  main  effect  when  there  was  of  radical 
well-being,  a  dynamic  zest  in  happiness.  I  lived  so  careless  of  the  moment;  alert 
and  gleeful,  someway  always  twinkling  joyously  from  point  to  point  of  easy  mirth. 
A  certain  spirit  of  delight  rushed  on  to  discovery,  and  childhood  is  a  mystery,  as 
some  writer  has  put  it — "Visited  by  revelation".  There  is  often  such  a  distance 
in  childhood  from  the  alien  lives  about  it,  and  half  comprehended  impulses  kept 
me  silent  over  certain  thronging  fancies  whenever  I  was  with  my  young  Aunts. 
I  had  ever  since  the  experience  of  hearing  and  retailing  that  sentimentally  absurd 
and  ridiculously  phrased  offer  of  marriage,  had  the  uncomfortable  sensation  of 
the  discovered  Eavesdropper,  and  looking  back  with  uneasy  self-scorn,  without 
as  yet  any  of  the  humor  of  the  performance,  only  at  my  own  ignorance  and  breaches 
of  taste,  I  had  ever  since  avoided  telling  things  I  overheard. 

Sitting  there,  looking  at  my  silent  Grandfather,  a  half  sentimental  though 
insistent  instinct  made  me  long  to  open  the  door  and  disclose  myself  on  certain 
points  and  feelings,  lately  growing  stronger  while  listening  to  my  Grandmother's 
reminiscences  and  her  frequent  and  particular  remarks  to  the  others  about  me. 
Now,  believing  in  his  sympathy,  the  barriers  dropping, — "Grandfather,  I  burst 
forth,  aren't  the  Sumner's  nice?"  He  turned  and  looked  me  over  quizzically — ;I 
was  embarrassed  for  the  moment  and  suddenly  shy,  but  not  ashamed  for  his 
countenance  lightened,  and  his  deep-set  eyes  had  genial  kindness  instead  of  amuse- 
ment or  tolerance,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  saw  the  accumulated  wisdom  of  generations. 

"Nice"  he  queried, "Yes, and  clever  too, a  good  stock  your  Father  came  from— 
Who  has  been  talking  to  you?"  "They  say  they  don't  see  any  Gray  in  me— They 
say  I  am  all  Sumner— and  I  am  always  reminding  Grandmother  oi  Aria  Sumner; 
and,  you  know,  growing  more  confidential,  when  I  hear  "Handsome  is  thai  Hand- 
some does,"  and  that  if  1  am  only  smart  like  Aria,  it  won't  matter  how  I  look, 
and  thai  I  don't  look  like  any  of  you  at  all,  1  feel  sorry,—!  am  afraid  Grand- 
father, dont  you  think  I  am  some  pretty?"  The  last  words  just  slipped  from  mo. 
and  I  looked  away  out  of  the  near  window  with  something  misty  in  my  eyes. 
There  was  tumult  and  a  certain  recoil  in  my  hurt  soul,  an  opening  consciousness 
Oppressed   by  the  realities  of  the  flesh. 

(  Hear  as  if  illusi  rated  in  sonic  highly  colored  pid  urc  t  he  moment  stands  out  when 
my  Grandfather,  the  so-called  stern  man,  held  out  his  hand  and  smiled  while  he 
answered  drily,  "Well!  if  yOU  want  to  see  a  pretty  woman  look  at  your  Mother! 
They  are  001  plentiful  as  blackberries.  (  Irandmot  her  needn't  mind  that  \  on  don't 
faVOr  l  he  (  ii.i\  ■..     I  have  heard  some  of  I  he  Simmers  were  decent  looking,  and  they 


I 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


have  got  brains.  You  are  not  half  bad  looking!  You  have  got  your  Father's  eyes, 
and  you  are  awfully  proud  of  those  long  curls  of  yours ;  You  know  your  hair  is  pretty, 
and  you  are  going  to  look  like  your  Father,  and  I  should  think  that  was  enough. 
Aria  has  her  tongue  hung  in  the  middle,  and  looks — well — no  matter — she  never 
stops  talking,  and  I  hope  you  won't  keep  on  when  you  are  grown  up  till  everybody 
is  tired  out!  Forget  the  things  you  hear  about  your  looks,  I  like  them, — and  now 
I  am  going  to  give  you  a  present."  Oh  Grandfather! — and  all  woes  were  forgotten 
as  I  danced  upstairs  to  the  old  Secretary  in  his  room,  and  brought  down  as  directed 
a  whole  shelf  full  of  small  books  bound  in  old  leather,  the  type  so  old  and  queer, 
and  the  paper  coarse  and  almost  brown  with  age.  "Ossian's  Poems"  in  two  little 
volumes,  and  all  of  "Moore's"  in  six.  "The  Scottish  Chief's"  the  "Hungarian 
Brothers",  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho"  and  other  quaint  works  in  that  fascinating 
size  and  binding.  How  I  jumped  for  joy!  I  had  no  suspicion  of  the  compassionate 
something  that  was  in  his  face,  and  I  could  hardly  believe  in  my  riches.  "Begin 
your  Library,  child,  since  your  hobby  is  reading;  you  can  have  all  of  my  books  to 
look  at,  and  those  you  like  best  to  carry  away  with  you." 

Much  water  has  passed  under  the  bridge  since  then,  and  memory  has  become 
vague  in  recalling  what  I  pored  over  longest,  and  the  many  that  I  appropriated 
to  the  displeasure  of  some  of  the  other  members  of  the  family,  but  with  my  Grand- 
father's full  consent.  I  ignored  cheerfully,  in  the  sunshine  of  his  felt  approval, 
criticisms  that  pronounced  me  a  "spoiled  child",  and  "likely  to  be  a  very  selfish 
one". 

But  I  was  absorbed  in  a  world  of  fiction  and,  incredible  as  it  is,  I  feel  sometimes 
the  same  terror  that  paralyzed  me  then  over  certain  farcical  tragic  stories;  fantastic, 
and  to  me,  terrible,  like  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho",  and  "The  Vale  of  Cedars", 
"The  Torture  of  the  Fleretics";  stories  of  "The  Inquisition"  and  "Accounts  of 
the  Martyrdom  of  the  Saints". 

It  is  easy  for  the  very  young  to  substitute  books  for  life  as  sources  of  information 
and  resources  of  amusement;  or  the  entertainment  towards  which  inclination  pulls; 
and  I  found  Grandfather's  Library  enthralling;  the  romances;  the  impossible  stories; 
the  histories  and  the  thrill  of  wonderful  events  recorded;  and  the  world  of  print 
became  more  and  more  exciting  and  made  for  book-hunger.  To  this  day  I  re- 
member some  startling  incidents  as  steps  to  learning,  for  much  that  was  pored  over 
at  that  age  made  deep  impressions;  often  twisted  ones  that  still  persist.  There 
was  no  guidance  to  reading,  which  was  rapidly  becoming  both  occupation  and 
recreation.  Fortunately  I  never  had  to  read  surreptitiously;  but  I  have  often  be- 
lieved that  advice,  suggestion  or  direction  would  have  made  me  climb  high  enough 
to  help  myself  to  Literature. 

I  never  asked  for  special  "Works",  I  knew  so  little;  and  was  merely  influenced 
by  environment  and  whatever  I  could  lay  my  hands  on — and  I  had  no  difficulty 
in  accepting  trash  for  truth,  because  things  imagined  became  true;  and  I  never 
suffered  from  Pilate's  difficulty  in  recognizing  "truth",  since  whatever  was  printed 
must  be  true! 

It  was  often  a  barren  field,  and,  a  certain  Puritan  inheritance  it  may  have  been 
— for  something  made  me,  even  when  not  interested,  feel  that  a  book  if  begun 
should  be  read  to  its  end.  Mine  is  a  heart  that  cherishes  memory,  and  nourishes 
itself  on  memories  and  revelations  which  but  for  the  impetuosity  of  my  youth 
would  have  long  since  dissolved  into  forgetfulness. 

From  the  Sanctuary  of  remembrance  into  which  one  can  retreat  at  will,  I  draw 
out  the  old  sense  of  relief  at  my  Grandfather's  words.  They  comforted  me — They 
took  me  out  of  myself.  My  Grandfather  had  played  Guardian  and  benefactor. 
There  were  no  two  ways  in  his  speech,  all  was  clear.  "You  are  not  half-bad" — All 
was  well  enough.  I  had  the  most  extraordinary  sense  of  being  taken  for  granted, 
as  looking,  "Well  enough" — "Not  half-bad  looking". 

There  was  gladness  in  me  again.  That  chapter  at  any  rate,  I  thought  ended. 
Life  was  as  bright  as  ever. 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


THE    TWO    GRANDFATHERS 

Bowdoinham,  Maine. 
Summer  of  1853. 

That  first  decade  of  my  life  there  always  seemed  a  light  shining  within.  As  I 
look  back  I  see  I  was  a  somewhat  solitary  child,  but  never  bored,  fretful,  harried 
or  dissatisfied:  I  never  had  to  ignore,  evade  or  capitulate.  Parents  and  environ- 
ment had  no  cramping  influence:  No  methods  in  my  rearing  fantastic  or  severe 
were  ever  used.  I  was  conscious  in  myself  of  no  resistance — active  or  passive  to 
existing  conditions.  I  could  act  on  the  assumption  of  freedom  to  a  large  extent; 
obedience  when  required  was  easily  yielded,  and  the  adult  world  was  to  me  always 
kindly  and  interesting.  So  I  never  broke  with  the  older  generation,  and  age-old 
problems  were  never  thrust  upon  me.  I  did  not  know  that  I  had  to  be  safe-guarded, 
and  naturally  I  did  not  recognize  the  value  of  my  happy  surroundings,  or  the 
fortunate  influences  exerted  by  association,  parental  devotion  and  the  processes 
of  education. 

Mutual  affection  in  my  life  has  been  always  sufficient  even  in  seasons  of  domestic 
stress  to  meet  all  emergencies.  There  were  never  with  my  beloved  Father  and 
Mother  any  natural  incompatibilities  which  enforced  unwilling  submission  from 
their  children.  What  an  immense  help  to  love  each  other!  How  easy  to  avoid 
the  contradictions  that  afflict  our  lives  if  inter-actions  adjust  themselves  amicably 
to  situations  as  they  arise.  And  no  situation  had  arisen  which  left  me  unprotected 
or  conscious  of  any  flame  of  opposition  within.  I  was  in  the  safe  shelter  of  a  happy 
home. 

There  were  always  intoxicating  possibilities  in  the  dream-world;  but  the  real 
world  held  dignity  and  nobility  and  serenity  in  the  poise  and  sweetness  of  its  days. 
We  are,  I  suppose,  all  beholden  to  our  thousands  of  ancestors  for  disposition, 
temperament,  moral  or  mental  attitudes;  and  mine  were  self-respecting  individuals, 
and  passed  on  some  dominent  racial  ideals  of  primary  importance  in  our  social 
world.    All  this  is  beyond  the  scope  of  definition  but  is  absorbed  by  human  contact. 

My  two  Grandfather's  in  the  Maine  village,  in  those  days  prosperous,  and  with 
no  threat  of  its  present  stagnation  and  social  dearth  or  death,  lived  not  far  apart, 
in  homes  of  attractive  outward  aspect,  but  far  different  in  appointment,  comfort 
and  peace. 

Grandfather  Gray  erect,  impressive,  with  fine  features,  keen  eyes  and  firm 
mouth,  had,  in  those  days,  the  great  advantage  of  College  education — having 
been  duly  graduated  from  Brown  University.  He  speedily  attained  to  unquestioned 
importance  and  relative  wealth — coming  from  Rhode  Island,  to  marry  and  settle 
in  that  small  ship-building  centre,  he  became  a  member  of  the  State  Legislature, 
a  lawyer  of  high  standing,  the  Justice  of  the  Peace,  and  the  Squire  of  the  Village. 
He  had  large  interests  in  ships,  and  was  widely  known,  respected,  admired  and  in 
a  sense  feared.  His  manner  demanded  a  deference  quickly  yielded.  He  brooked 
neither  criticisms  nor  advice  in  matters  of  business,  any  more  than  he  would  endure 
the  least  interference  in  domestic  rule.  He  directed  and  domineered,  but  was 
j_'cncrous  and  kind  at  bottom.  Very  proud  of  his  family  and  ancestry,  he  taught 
"Noblesse  oblige"  to  his  children,  and  watched  over  them  with  unfailing  care  as 
he  did  of  materia]  possessions. 

Across  the  bridge,  under  whitch  the  river  or  stream  below  his  house  rose  and  fell 
with  the  tides, and  up  the  opposite  hill,  one  turned  into  a  pretty  street  all  lined  with 
pleasani  homes.  And  Grandfather  I. ant's,  a  square  white  green-blinded  one,  was 
\ell  back  among  the  trees,  with  apple  orchards  In-side  and  behind  it  that  were 
a  never  failing  source  of  delight.  The  central  hall  and  good-sized  rooms  were 
alwa]  I'.o.  and  forbidding.  It  was  noi  only  the  contrasts  thai  struck  somewhat 
heavy  on  my  spirits,  bul  the  atmosphere  of  fault-finding  and  unchecked  temper 

thai  charat  terized  the  household,  seldom  as  it  was  Openly  expressed  in  my  presence. 
Grandfather    Luni    was   the   principal    merchant    of  the   little   village,   a    man   ol 

1 1 1 1.  y  I  probil y  ami  profound  pietj , 

lii  church  and  business  he  Btood  as  an  example  beyond  reproach,  he  was  true 

/  '  •     I  33 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


to  the  best  as  he  saw  it:  In  a  sense  he  must  have  once  been  a  strong  man,  but  he 
had  a  wasted  look;  His  cheeks  were  thin  and  hollowed,  the  yellowed  skin  tight 
drawn.  His  snow  white  hair  thick  and  wavy  was  brushed  back  from  a  beautiful 
brow,  and  it  looked  like  a  thick  frame  each  side  of  the  sad  face;  sad  somehow  as 
if  light  had  been  washed  out.  His  was  a  good  figure  still,  but  he  stooped  somewhat, 
and  his  melancholy  eyes  were  set  deep  back  under  overhanging  brows.  He  was  a 
dignified  quiet  old  man  but  warmth  had  died  out  of  him. 

My  Father's  step-mother  had  in  the  children's  early  life  made  misery  for  them 
all — Orrington  and  William  and  Sarah  and  Dolly,  and  the  little  Sumner  whose 
birth  cost  his  Mother's  life. 

My  own  Grandmother  Lunt  was  described  to  me  by  Grandmother  Gray  as 
a  "Great  Lady"  since  she  brought  to  that  small  community  a  style  and  dress 
hitherto  by  the  natives  unseen:  Such  high-heeled  slippers,  and  tall  combs,  and 
laces  and  fans:  How  did  mild  Grandfather  Lunt  ever  persuade  that  daughter  of 
the  Sumner's  and  Vose's,  of  such  marked  breeding  and  refinement,  to  turn  her  back 
upon  Boston  and  Milton  and  bury  herself  in  that  inland  village?  True,  he  was 
good  to  look  upon,  and  there  must  have  been  sparkle  in  those  deep  blue  eyes,  for 
when  he  smiled  even  now,  and  ever  so  faintly,  something  stirred  in  the  heart — But, 
alas!  and  alas!  however  tender  and  devoted,  he  must  have  lacked  firmness  and 
discernment,  or  after  that  early  death  of  his  lovely  wife,  how  could  he  have  come 
so  speedily  under  the  dominance  of  the  managing,  sharp-tongued  housekeeper, 
who  had  acted  as  Nurse  when  the  little  Sumner  was  born?  The  report  was  current 
that  in  his  short  unhappy  life  the  child  was  harried  by  unkindness  that  developed 
into  cruelty.  The  towns-people  averred  that  he  suffered  from  lack  of  love,  and 
severity  of  discipline,  until  driven  into  brain-fever  to  join  the  Mother  who  had 
given  her  life  so  vainly. 

This  awful  tale  recounted  to  me  with  gruesome  additions  filled  my  young  soul 
with  horror,  and  an  approach  to  hatred  of  the  old  lady  who  greeted  my  rare  appear- 
ance with  gentle  words  and  smiles.  All  sense  of  kinship  had  been  killed  in  me, 
and  revolt  in  its  place  made  me  shrink  unjustly  from  the  whole  household.  The 
neighbour's  gossipy  tales,  which  would  not  seem  to  die  out,  were  responsible  for 
my  attitude  of  aversion  and  distaste.  My  visits  were  enforced  ones  and  always 
as  brief  as  I  dared  make  them.  I  was  under  orders  from  my  beloved  and  forgiving 
Father,  who  was  their  support  and  dependance  for  many  years  and  acted  to  the 
end  as  a  devoted  and  supporting  son  of  the  house. 

All  the  years  that  have  passed  have  not  dimmed  my  memory  of  the  one  time 
my  Father's  Father  seemed  familiar  and  came  close  to  me.  I  had  been  in  the 
orchard  where  the  fresh  blown  afternoon  winds,  that  shook  the  trees  and  made 
the  earth  so  dear,  had  almost  obsessed  me  with  something  complete  in  joy.  My 
Grandfather  saw  and  called  to  me  as  he  entered  the  gate,  and  reluctantly  I  rose 
and  followed  him  into  the  house  and  unused  parlour,  where  he  shut  the  door  and 
stood  silent  for  a  second  looking  long  at  me; — wide-eyed  I  watched  every  movement 
as  I  listened  afterward  to  every  word. 

Behind  that  outward  semblance  lurked  a  shadow  that  could  not  be  explored — 
grudges  and  wrongs  and  bitter  tales  had  made  me  lose  all  comprehension  and 
affection:  Resting  on  a  rock  of  inarticulate  resentment  had  broken  all  bonds  of 
sympathy,  and  there  was  a  bolt,  an  impassible  barrier  between  us. 

He  must  have  known  nothing  that  could  have  forbidden  personal  relations 
between  us.  He  looked  upon  me  kindly.  He  seemed  not  excited,  very  calm  and 
patient  in  manner,  but  when  he  began  to  speak  it  was  as  if  he  were  looking  and 
listening  to  something  far  away. 

His  mind  seemed  full  of  my  Father,  "My  son  Orrington,  my  dear  son" — he 
repeated  with  an  anxious  inflection.  He  had  lacked  the  qualities  which  would 
have  made  him  firm  in  conflict,  when  his  sovereignty  at  home  was  usurped  almost 
to  the  point  of  tragedy,  and  that  lost  him  the  whip-hand  in  his  family.  He  must 
have  called  up  pictures  and  people  that  set  a  drama  going  in  his  brain,  for  it  was 
of  the  conditions  and  adventures  of  Orrington's  childhood  that  he  spoke:  And  for 
the  first  time  I  realized  that  my  Father  had  been  his  little  boy. 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


Aline  had  been  a  pitiless  judgment  upon  his  wife's  pitilessness,  and  now  I  felt 
a  love  had  lived  in  my  Grandfather's  heart  that  I  could  not  understand.  But  I 
was  not  handicapped  with  the  mental  blindness  of  the  unimaginative,  and  he  made 
me  feel  and  see  in  that  past,  and  in  him,  something  that  curiously  aroused  an  im- 
petuous feeling  of  allegiance,  almost  a  friendship  for  ever  after  for  my  little  under- 
stood Grandfather. 

He  talked  on  and  on  of  the  children  of  Orrington  and  William,  and  Sarah  and 
Dolly,  and  of  the  Mother  who  died  when  my  Father  was  eleven;  and  I  looked  up 
admiringly  at  his  crinkly  white  whiskers;  and  the  wavy  snow  white  hair  that  framed 
so  beautifully  his  tired  face.  His  eyes  for  the  first  time  had  lovely  light  and  they 
glittered  like  blue  steel,  not  like  those  of  an  old  man.  There  had  come  a  sudden 
sparkle,  and  the  overhanging  brows  had  lifted,  to  show  me  an  unexpected  reserve 
and  secret  of  intense  devotion.  His  voice  always  low,  changed  to  subtle  sympathy 
as  he  continued  to  recount  little  incidents  of  the  childrens  lives.  Living  over  the 
past  he  became  impressive  almost  to  tenderness.  For  a  second  he  put  his  arm 
about  me,  but  habitual  repression  was  too  strong  and  we  heard  a  voice,  and  a  call 
which  was  a  menace  to  him,  a  devastating  demoralizing  factor  that  held  all  loving 
expression  in  leash. 

Just  then  he  saw  the  small  volume  of  Byron  that  I  had  found  behind  a  shelf 
of  books  upstairs — strange  indeed  to  have  found  that  book  in  his  ill-assorted  lib- 
rary, but  it  had  been  eagerly  grasped  because  anecdotes,  and  adventures  and  emo- 
tions were  a  stock  in  trade  to  delight  in  or  advertise  with.  My  efforts  that  day- 
had  not  resulted  in  understanding  exactly  what  the  author  was  talking  about, 
but  beautiful  descriptions  enchanted  me,  and  allusions  stimulated  curiosity.  "This 
is  no  book  for  you"  I  heard  in  stern  accents — I  had  always  chosen  for  myself  and 
under  that  alien  roof  received  the  first  criticism. 

Little  assistance  in  training  or  choice  of  reading  had  not  harmed  me  because 
the  treasure-trove  of  raw  material  for  childish  fingers  to  dig  in  was  not  of  a  nature 
to  prove  injurious.  Grandfather  Gray  had  opened  to  me  that  summer  "Paradise 
Lost",  and  "Pepy's  Diary",  and  "Plutarchs  Lives"  and  read  some  aloud  to  me 
from  Essays  and  Histories;  and  there  were  those  enchanting  novels  he  had  given 
me,  which  made  for  enrichment  and  enhanced  imagination. 

Now  surprise  at  an  unexpected  reproof  kept  me  silent,  as  Grandfather  Lunt 
put  on  his  spectacles,  took  up  the  big  Bible  from  the  round  centre-table  with  a 
plainly  fixed  idea  that  I  needed  Scriptural  teaching.  So,  that  one  interview  that 
I  can  remember,  ended  with  his  reading  first  from  the  Epistles,  and  then  The  Psalms 
to  which  I  listened  with  pleasure.  I  had  heard  them  every  day  of  my  life  at  morning 
prayers,  and  loved  my  Father's  beautiful  voice  as  we  all  knelt  at  the  family  altar. 
There  was  also  something  sweet  and  sonorous  in  Grandfather's  tones,  and  it  was 
all  very  familiar  and  like  fables  or  poems.  I  had  little  real  idea  what  the  oracular 
words  so  solemnly  brought  forth  meant,  and  in  the  last  Psalm  he  chose,  that  oft 
repeated  "Selah",  long  drawn  out,  began  to  give  me  a  strange  sensation  of  awe. 
I  was  glad  to  get  relieved  finally,  and  with  a  brief  farewell,  for  the  resources  of  the 
entertainment  had  become  insufficient,  I  ran  gaily  down  the  hill  towards  the  home- 
stead longing  for  Grandfather  Gray's  explanation. 

That  ever  recurring  "Selah,  Selah"  sang  to  me  and  lacked  intelligibility;  and 
I  wanted  also  to  ask  about  the  "Ark  of  the  Covenant",  references  to  which  in 
something  very  pious,  read  lately,  had  distinctly  needed  interpretation.  My  own 
reading,  hitherto  neither  directed  nor  supervised,  did  not  certainh  by  any  means 
fulfil  its  mission  in  proving  steps  to  learning. 

In   thai    far-off,  but  not  forgotten  time  before  the  age  of  important   school  or 

wise  schooling,  which  I  now  gravely  doubi   I  ever  ha  J,  the  pictures  ol  the  text 

were  always  highly  coloured,  ami  active  fancies  made  their  ineffaceable  impression. 

It  seems  incredible  to  me  now  in  extreme  age  thai  I  can  draw  upon  memory,  and 
utilize  s<>  many  points  in  experience,  droll  or  otherwise,  to  hang  ethical  teachings 

on  today;  morals  or  lessons  that  never  appealed  tO  me  then,  any  more  than  they  do 

today  to  grand-nieces  or  adopted  children! 

I   wai  sometimes  serious,  but    I   think  at    the  \eiv  beginning  my  mind  was  bent 


' 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


in  the  way  it  has  grown;  not  for  any  fine  or  valuable  work  in  life,  but  for  much 
enjoyment,  and  an  overflowing  fund  of  sympathy;  a  capacity  to  see  the  other  side, 
and  to  put  myself  in  another's  place.  Yes,  and  for  good  that  at  times  has  come 
to  me — good  beyond  calculation,  in  swift  response  to  the  challenge  of  nature. 
Mine  was  apparently  not  the  soil  from  which  springs  great  enterprises  or  noble 
successful  ventures,  or  wonderful  sacrificial  labours. 

It  was  far-reaching  philanthropies,  splendid  self-effacement,  devotion  to  the 
highest  standards,  love  of  Church  and  State,  that  made  my  Father's  life  so  worthy 
and  wonderful.  To  him  it  was  always  Causes  that  appealed — To  me  it  was,  and 
ever  has  been  the  individual. 

THE    DISCOVERED     LIKENESS 

Bowdoinham,  Maine 
Summer  of  1853 

The  visit  to  Maine  was  nearing  its  close.  Grandfather  gave  me  funny  answers 
to  my  questions,  for  I  met  with  frequent  stumbling  blocks,  and  many  books  I  read 
that  Summer  did  not  by  any  means  belong  to  the  mysterious  something  called 
Literature.  But  I  devoured  them  all  alike. — "Night  Thoughts"  shared  with 
"Munchausen",  "Addison"  with  "Gulliver";  "Pride  and  Prejudice"  with  "Grimm's 
Fairy  Tales"  ail  alike  awakening  vivid  interest.  I  was  eclectic  for  a  girl  of  ten, 
and  splendid  religious  imagery  invariably  captivated  fancy  and  had  given  me  a 
grand  conception  of  God,  Heaven  and  Hell,  which  for  years  saved  me  from  no  end 
of  trouble  and  vexation. 

I  had  in  those  days  a  great  advantage  over  Moses,  for  I  knew  exactly  every  time 
what  that  glorified  Titanic  Being,  familiarily  described  and  dilated  upon  in  pulpits 
and  Sunday-school,  felt  about  me  and  everything  else,  since  He  so  evidently,  as 
the  Preachers  taught,  let  down  strings  for  the  faithful  to  pull!  And  I  was  one  of 
the  puppets  that  found  it  all  enthralling  to  belong  to  the  Elect,  and  Hell  and 
Heaven  and  incredible  wickedness  that  I  could  not  understand  gave  me  great 
suspense  and  delight. 

It  was  always  the  story,  the  romance,  the  novelty  and  excitement  that  gripped 
me,  and  made  me  weep  and  flow  out  in  sympathy,  and  grow  ever  more  tolerant 
and  self-sufficient.  Book-hungry  as  I  was  I  continued  anxious  to  get  certain 
baffling  queries  answered  for  I  could  never  explain  unhappy  endings;  To  be  joyous 
I  considered  essential  and  part  of  the  Divine  Plot.  Solemnity  was  not  for  me, 
nor  denials  or  restraints,  since  all  the  major  external  influences  made  for  freedom 
of  thought  and  action  and  an  ever  growing  mighty  self-confidence. 

It  was  in  that  spirit  exuberant  and  gay  that  the  blow  fell  one  terrible  afternoon. 
Could  I  dream  of  the  illustration  reserved  for  me  that  day,  crashing  upon  sensitive- 
ness, and  with  one  avenging  blow  destroying  all  hopes  of  personal  attractiveness 
by  the  revelation  in  a  bitter  driving  blow  that  left  only  conviction  of  personal 
defects. 

On  the  sixth  of  August,  the  month  just  opening,  there  was  to  be  a  gathering 
of  the  Clan,  relatives  from  Little  Compton,  Rhode  Island,  from  Seaconnet-by-the- 
Sea,  and  the  near  towns  of  Brunswick  and  Bath.  My  heart  was  full  of  eager  antici- 
pation, as  my  Grandparents  on  the  eve  of  our  departure  for  Chicago,  were  planning 
to  hold  high  holiday  with  a  hospitable  feast  for  Aunts  and  Cousins  to  celebrate  my 
Mother's  Birthday. 

That  afternoon  I  had  been  sent  on  some  errand,  and  returning  elate  I  swung 
into  the  lower  entrance,  ran  up  the  steps  and  was  hurrying  through  the  large  living- 
room  regardless  of  a  visitor  casually  noticed,  when  I  heard  the  voice  that  called 
me,  and  beheld  my  Grandmother  sitting  by  one  of  the  windows  busily  engaged 
talking  to  a  lady  facing  her  whom  I  could  not  distinguish.  She  turned  her  face 
as  I  drew  near  and  heard  the  words — "This,  Aria,  is  the  little  girl  we  think  looks 
so  much  like  you." — Oh!  the  wild  horror  of  that  moment,  for  I  saw  a  face  to  my 
inflamed  imagination,  fairly  hideous.  It  would  be  a  gross  caricature  of  a  good  and 
clever  woman  to  give  any  shadow  of  how  she  looked  to  me  at  that  moment;  I  did 

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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


not  see  the  kindly  expression,  only  the  course  grey  skin;  the  big  features,  brow 
retreating,  teeth  projecting,  and  eyes  with  a  cast  that  made  them  queerly  repellant. 
The  straight  hair  was  drawn  back  from  a  countenance  which  seemed  of  grotesque 
ugliness.  I  could  see  nothing  else  and  I  snatched,  with  a  choked  cry,  my  hand  from 
hers,  and  rushed  wildly  from  the  rooms,  up  and  up  into  the  garret's  farthest  corner! 

It  was  a  brand  that  set  me  aside  from  my  family.  Of  course  I  knew  that  Grand- 
mother had  long  ago  decided  I  was  not  good-looking,  but  she  always  added,  "No 
matter  how  I  looked,  if  I  was  only  half  as  entertaining  as  Aria",  and  I  had  always 
managed  to  cheer  up  ever  since  Grandfather  said,  "I  was  nice  and  had  a  twinkle 
in  my  eye".  Even  after  hearing  again  and  again,  "That  handsome  is  that  handsome 
does,"  I  plodded  on  easily  consoled.  But  that  awful  moment  shattered  all  confi- 
dence or  comfort. 

I  had  never  learned  by  inevitable  limitations  the  finiteness  of  human  capacity, 
or  by  bitter  experience  the  fixity  of  laws  relentless.  The  temptations  of  a  turbulent 
rebellious  emotional  nature  had  never  before  been  aroused.  Now  in  manifest  power 
and  refusal  revolt  shook  me  to  the  foundations  of  fear  and  despair. 

"I  want  to  die — I  want  to  die — I  am  so  homely — I  am  so  homely — I  look  like 
Aria  Sumner!"  And  until  utterly  exhausted  over  and  over  I  cried  that  refrain, 
a  sobbing  heap  of  misery. 

I  did  not  answer  to  repeated  calls,  growingly  and  more  anxiously  insistent, 
until  my  Mother's  repeated  use  of  my  name  finally  evoked  a  muffled  response,  as 
she  mounted  the  garret  steps.  The  violence  of  my  crying  startled  her — "Hush 
Neanie — Hush — Tell  Mother  what  it  is? — Now,  at  once",  as  I  continued  to  gasp 
and  shake.  "I  look  like  Aria  Sumner, — I  am  so  homely, — I  want  to  die — I  want  to 
die," — between  choking  sobs,  and  it  was  a  moment  before  I  could  listen  to  the 
quiet  soothing  voice.  "But  that  is  wicked,  God  made  your  face."  "I  don't  care, — 
I  don't  care, — He  wasn't  good  to  me — He  made  me  homely  like  Aria  Sumner,  and 
she  has  pig's  eyes — I  want  to  die, — Oh,  I  want  to  die!" 

"Are  her  eyes  like  your  Father's  and  yours? — Is  her  hair  curly  like  Father's 
and  yours? — Stop  this  minute  and  think — Did  you  never  hear  of  people  looking 
like  each  other,  and  yet  looking  different?  To  Mother  your  face  is  dear  and  when 
you  smile  everyone  likes  it." 

Oh  that  drop  of  oil  on  the  bleeding  wound !  My  swollen  face  was  washed  tender- 
ly after  the  descent  to  Mother's  room  and  she  continued  while  bathing  my  half 
closed  eyes,  "Grandmother  did  not  mean  she  thought  you  very  homely,  only  you 
don't  look  like  her  family.  And  one  does  not  have  to  be  handsome  to  be  loved — 
Aria  has  lots  of  friends." 

"Oh  Mother  don't  let  me  see  her  again — I  can't  bear  it — I  can't  bear  it, — I 
can't,"  and  I  clung  hysterically,  but  was  soon  startled  into  relative  composure. 
"She  is  your  Father's  cousin,  and  he  will  be  hurt  and  ashamed  you  can  show  such 
feelings.  Now  you  must  dry  your  tears  and  I  will  never  let  anyone  know  how  you 
have  behaved.  God  has  been  very  good  to  you  and  to  us  all.  I  think  my  little  girl 
can  love  and  be  loved  a  lot  if  she  tries,  and  nobody  will  mind  her  looks;  pretty  people 
are  not  always  nice,  we  won't  talk  any  more  about  it.  Come  with  me  to  pick  cur- 
rants and  berries  for  Grandmother's  pics  and  puddings  and  jollies.  Don't  you  want 
to  look  into  the  big  brick  oven?  It  is  a  fine  sight.  Full  of  bread  loaves,  and  eakes, 
and  baked  puddings,  and  we'll  open  it  and  have  a  peep." 

Thus  gently  talking,  quiet  ensued  and  until  maturity  came,  and  the  pictures 
of   that    episode   grew   absurd   and    laughter    provoking   to   recount,    it    was    never 

mentioned  again;  ami  never  did  my  Grandmother  realize  the  hurt  frequenl  al- 
lusions to  my  looks  cost,    in  comparisons  (she  illustrated)  In    incidents  or  distinct 

referena     to  her  own  daughters,  the  so-called  "Beautiful  (nay  Sisters".     Even 

my  own  lovely   Mother  did  not   dream  how  that   wound  opened  and  ached  afresh 

with  convictions  of  the  hoplessness  of  competing  lor  any  prizes,  while  1  lacked  the 
bus  loveliness  of  form  ami  feature  that  distinguished  our  famirj . 
'I 'hat  ''11'  agonizing  emotion  Btands  out  in  an  intensity,  For  the  details  of  that 
unimaginable  hour  haunted  me  for  years.    The  keen  impression  ol  the  hues,  mj 


Pagt  at 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


Grandmother's  placid  smile,  and  my  sickening  recoil  from  what  represented  at 
that  moment  an  indescribable  ugliness. 

Remembrances  from  the  interminable  years  of  childhood  are  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  their  importance.  Agitated,  excited,  the  horror  of  that  moment  was 
an  actuality  that  for  years  made  me  shrink  at  its  poignant  recollection.  There 
was  tumult  and  recoil  in  my  hurt  soul  and  a  deepened  consciousness  of  the  defaced 
realities  of  the  flesh.  It  remained  a  tragic  situation  until  I  grew  scornful  of  myself, 
could  see  the  humour  of  the  scene,  and  could  laugh  and  declare  that  the  grief  was 
forgotten. 

Foundations  may  be  so  deeply  set  that  until  some  violent  shock  stirs  us,  and 
we  are  suddenly  hurled  into  a  whirl  of  feeling  strong  as  the  strong  storms  that  sweep 
the  sea,  we  never  realize  the  power  that  lies  within. 

But  I  have  progressed  in  ways  small  and  great  since  then,  and  utilized  in  measure 
as  the  years  mounted  whatever  inspiration  or  recognized  instruction  appealed  to 
a  nature  like  mine.  I  have  not  known  degeneration  of  energy,  or  lack  of  activity 
in  attempts  to  accomplish  things  desired,  or  to  induce  growth  by  doing  certain 
things  for  others  well  and  quickly. 

Drawbacks  to  cultivation  are  due  to  many  causes,  where  the  soil  in  general 
may  have  been  rich,  but  if  the  conditions  of  life  are  not  those  that  watch  and  water 
and  fertilize  intellectually,  by  skilled  and  steady  guidance  to  develop  powers  and 
gifts  that  urge  and  drive  to  eminence  or  labour;  or  to  leave  an  exceptional  record, 
still  the  emotional  extremes  in  an  ordinary  life  are  needful  as  counter-weights  to 
a  balance. 

Wounded  and  bleeding  for  an  hour,  mine  was  the  heart  of  reassuring  youth 
that,  with  the  strain  removed,  let  me  browse  again  in  imaginary  fields;  bright 
prospects  and  projects  were  glowing  again  as  I  fared  forward  into  the  Sun. 

And  in  the  years  following  I  bowed  to  my  Grandmother's  sentence  that  shut 
me  out,  and  never  by  my  own  volition  dug  into  it,  for  I  loved  beauty  with  an  ever 
increasing  passion  and  the  great  refreshing  power  of  its  appreciation. 

Even  lacking  all  knowledge  of  things  not  visible  or  measurable  ones  ideal  can 
grow  higher,  and  the  whole  attitude  of  the  mind  stand  for  forward  motion.  Imagin- 
ation had  freed  itself  from  bondage,  and  mine  was  no  malign  fate. 

THE    LITTLE    LUNTS 

Nothing  easily  ruffled  the  surface  of  my  good  spirits,  and  I  could  never  long 
keep  quiet.  I  was  always  doing  things,  and  I  early  began  to  find  people  the  most 
attractive  things  on  earth.  I  suppose  I  dwelt  vaguely,  when  at  all,  upon  the  in- 
dividuals about  me,  but  I  was  disposed  to  enjoy  everyone  and  everything.  I  loved 
to  hear  the  interminable  discussions  going  on  about  personal  matters,  but  there 
was  never  in  me  then  or  since  any  hostile  curiosity.  Something  kindlier  was  in- 
stinctively active,  as  I  have  since  divined  and  realized  exists  in  all  the  Lunts. 
The  disquieting  allusions,  and  any  sharp  stories  that  scandalized,  always  seemed 
to  confirm  and  fortify  a  sudden  disbelief  that  made  a  contrary  view  from  what 
I  was  hearing  natural,  and  so  not  particularly  creditable.  If  I  could  not  unravel 
I  could  not  bear  to  be  in  the  network  of  things  that  alarmed,  and  I  shrank  at  once 
and  became  increasingly  reluctant  to  listen.  I  never  have  seemed  to  understand 
animosity,  and  I  think  I've  been  willing  to  leave  that  field  to  others  rather  than  to 
contend  or  even  listen. 

Somebody  once  said  long  ago  that  people  who  made  no  efforts  to  contest  or  to 
rule  were  usually  superior  to  such  efforts,  as  they  were  never  necessary  with  those 
born  to  rule.  But  it  was  neither  mental  nor  moral  striving  that  made  me  feel  I 
hated  to  struggle  or  to  quarrel.  I  wanted  to  rule  of  course,  I  was  a  little  dominant 
and  always  liked  my  own  way,  I  believed  in  the  nature  of  things  that  I  was  right, 
but  I  discovered  long  after  that  I  wanted  to  rule  because  of  endowments  and 
superior  gifts,  not  as  a  result  of  battling  or  battles. 

It  makes  no  difference  whether  the  days  are  bright  or  monotonous,  whether 
the  imagination  is  active  or  sluggish,  whether  enthusiasms  are  vivid  or  blunted — 

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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


Nature  touches  and  stirs,  uplifts  and  blesses  every  blunted  sensibility — and  then 
come  action  and  thrills. 

I  began  to  feel  delicious  agitations  listening  to  comments  on  my  various  relatives 
outside  the  Gray  household.  I  especially  remember  remarks  of  my  Aunt  Sarah 
Rhoades  lately  arrived  on  the  scene,  with  her  little  son  Sam  a  new  playmate  for 
my  little  brothers.  Aunt  Sarah  seemed  to  be  comparing  children  and  she  said 
to  Mother  "Your  Horace  and  George  are  so  merry,  so  full  of  questions  and  ob- 
servations that  their  activities  never  seem  exhausted;  they  mind  you  too,  Cornelia, 
but  are  always  betaking  themselves  to  occupations  that  absorb  them  heart  and 
brain;  never  so  very  quiet,  and  confinement  or  restraint  would  be  intolerable  to 
such  bounding  spirits — but  those  boys  of  William  Lunt's  are  painfully  quiet;  no 
mischief  seemingly  there,  and  I  think  they  are  too  well  behaved.  If  it  means 
thoughtfulness  and  sensibility  it's  begun  to  show  itself  far  too  early.  No  doubt 
Susan  Lunt  takes  the  cake  for  obedient  children — politeness  is  all  very  well  but 
its  plain  they're  afraid  to  say  their  soul's  their  own — Susan  is  a  terrible  disciplin- 
arian. I  tell  you  those  young  ones  have  to  toe  the  mark.  Why!  I  believe  she'd 
work  her  fingers  to  the  bone  before  she'd  have  a  speck  of  dust  anywhere  in  that 
house  of  hers.  The  children  are  always  so  spick  and  span,  and  they  mind  at  the 
wink  of  an  eyelash !  Those  little  fellows  are  awfully  good-looking.  Susan's  severe — 
but  she's  a  good  Mother  and  a  splendid  housekeeper.  Everything  is  in  tip-top 
order  over  there." 

I  summoned  up  my  resolution  to  learn  all  I  could  about  my  kindred.  They 
were  numerous  and  seemed  widely  divided.  One  happy  hour  alone  with  my  Grand- 
father I  asked  suddenly — "Isn't  it  funny  about  relatives,  Grandfather?"  "How 
do  you  mean  child— What's  funny?  Don't  you  understand  about  your  family?" 
"There's  so  many  of  them  and  all  with  so  many  names — And  what  is  a  Grand- 
Uncle?  Grandmother  says  that  Uncle  Job  Gray  and  Uncle  John  Fulton  are  my 
Grand  Uncles,  and  there's  such  a  lot  of  Fultons'  and  Pattens'  and  Grays'  and 
Lunts',  and  I've  got  two  Uncle  Williams  and  two  Aunt  Sarahs'." — "Well,  now 
listen — You  have  no  clear  knowledge  of  kinship  I  see  and  I'll  tell  you  a  little"  and 
he  talked  so  engagingly  that  some  way  I  seemed  introduced  to  them  all. 

"You  see  Uncle  William  Lunt  is  your  Grandfather  Lunt's  son — He's  a  very 
good  man — very  good,  and  so  is  your  Father,  and  Uncle  William  Gray  is  my  son 
and  a  pretty  lively  one.  About  your  Aunt  Sarah  who  is  visiting  us  while  your 
Mother  is  here,  you  know  she's  my  daughter,  don't  you,  but  that  Aunt  Sarah 
Comings  is  your  Grandfather  Lunt's  daughter."  His  conversation  went  round  the 
circle  including  other  Uncles  and  Aunts  and  gave  me  the  bearings  of  the  question. 

I  even  laughed  at  some  of  his  descriptive  adjectives  and  hits  upon  the  foibles 
and  looks  of  different  individuals.  I  recall  now  with  similar  amusement  that  one 
was  "A  modest  gentle  sort  of  man  very  humble  and  meek" — another — "Fiery 
and  crazy,  and  tried  to  make  everyone  mind  him" — One  was — "gracious  and  meant 
well,  but  you  must  mind  your  P's  and  Q's  when  with  her,"  and  another — "So 
solemn  that  you  wanted  to  run  a  mile  to  get  out  of  her  sight,"  and  he  laughed 
heartily  when  he  described  someone  as  "Long  and  spare"  and — "She  liked  to 
smarten  up  and  be  conspicuous." 

When  Grandfather  chose  he  was  addicted  to  sharpness  in  description  and  his 
talk  then  was  like  clean  pistol  practise,  lie  praised  very  few — lie  was  keen-sighted, 
practical  and  critical  and  was  inclined  to  be  choleric  whenever  opposed.  His 
opinions  were  very  definite,  and  his  will  was  like  well  tempered  steel.  Grandfather 
Gray  had  no  weakness  of  purpose  ami  in  him  there  was  little  or  no  resignation, 
no  self-abnegation  or  voluntary  self  denial,  yet  generosity,  consideration  and 
kindly  Bervice  were  all  bestowed  freely  and  often,     lie  did  not   exemplify  the 

religious  virtues,  nor  associate  himself  with  those  who  worshipped  as  did  m\ 
Grandfather  Lunt,  who  found  all  his  comfort  in  tin-  Word  of  God.  It  is  told  of 
In  forebears  thai  in  olden  times  some  of  them  could  not  wait  lor  prayers  until 
the)  reached  the  Church,  hut  if  the  spirit  moved  them  gol  down  knelt  by  the  road 
and  offered  petitions  long  and  fervent. 

There  are  records  "I  one  of  our  Ancestors  who  knocked  up  his  family  everj 


Pag*  aS 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


morning  with  verses  of  Scripture,  and  whose  piety  was  so  tremendous  that  no  one 
dared  to  interrupt  him  with  a  question  when  he  held  forth,  usually  at  meals,  so 
none  of  the  family  peeped  during  one  of  his  homilies  when  he  told  them  as  Christians 
what  to  believe  and  how  to  behave!  If  anyone  asked  a  question  he  flamed  into  a 
tempest  of  wrath  far  from  saintly,  insisting  that  his  ten  or  twelve  "Olive  Branches" 
were  in  the  nature  of  things  all  Christians,  and  all  Christians  behaved  of  course 
according  to  his  rules. 

My  own  Grandfather  Lunt  was  a  Puritan  in  grain  but  one  of  the  mildest  of  men. 
He  was  too  patient  and  too  enduring,  for  no  words  of  complaint  ever  escaped  him, 
and  nothing  existed  to  show  that  he  had  sad  privations,  and  sore  trials  to  put  up 
with.  His  sons,  my  Father  and  his  brother  William,  founded  their  families  on 
principles  also;  but  while  there  was  perfect  purity,  intrepidity  and  consecration 
manifest  in  both  there  was  in  them  an  elasticity  of  nature,  as  far  as  the  kindlier 
emotions  were  concerned,  for  however  firm  in  word  or  deed  there  was  in  neither 
any  absence  of  humanity  or  sympathy. 

It  was  entire  faith,  entire  belief,  with  no  disturbing  element  of  doubt  and  every 
action  and  attitude  was  built  upon  their  interpretation  of  the  Holiest  of  Books — 
The  Book  of  Life — the  Christian's  Bible.  The  Divine  Will  was  an  inevitable  Guide, 
and  faith  in  the  answer  to  prayer  revealed  to  them  the  path  they  trod.  So  confident 
were  those  brothers  of  the  reality  of  the  Overshadowing  Providence,  and  of  spiritual 
authority,  that  if  they  were  bounded  by  narrow  views  and  correct  Orthodoxy 
they  were  still  armoured  in  right  thinking  and  tender  feeling.  They  were  consistent 
and  forgiving.  They  knew  nothing  about  a  "Tooth  for  a  Tooth  and  an  Eye  for 
an  Eye".  They  could  never  hold  a  grudge.  They  could  forget,  and  ignore  what 
was  unpleasant,  and  they  could  give — give — give  everything  but  their  free  souls. 
To  conserve  liberty  of  view  and  follow  the  lead  of  conscience  was  more  than  a  right 
— it  was  a  religious  duty. 

There  is  rather  a  startling  intensity  in  one  afternoon  at  my  Uncle  William 
Lunt's.  They  had  a  pleasant  little  home  on  one  of  the  ascending  streets  with  vines 
that  covered  the  porch  and  sides — the  vines  seem  stamped  upon  my'  memory. 
More  than  a  name-plate  on  that  door  the  home  meant  frugality,  industry,  and 
unyielding  purpose — punctilious,  precise,  exact,  even  heart-beats  were  hidden 
under  well  brushed  clothes;  and  a  mask  of  reserve  worn  by  the  elders  sometimes 
reached  and  was  copied  by  the  children. 

In  that  bygone  time  I  saw  comparatively  very  little  of  those  young  cousins 
who  had  been  held  up  to  me  by  my  Aunt  Sarah  as  models  of  behaviour.  I  insist 
here  that  I  am  not  censuring  anyone,  but  in  the  force  of  atmosphere  there  was 
something  tangible  like  a  weapon  and  it  always  hushed  me. There  was  something 
in  addition  to  my  Aunt  Susan's  qualities  that  intensified  her  power  to  command. 
It  was  a  firmness  that  never  failed,  for  inconstancy  to  her  ideals  was  as  impossible 
as  forgetfulness  of  her  duties.  The  graces  of  virtue,  and  duty  in  bodily  force  and 
mental  vigor  united  to  life-long  integrity  and  made,  though  never  reciprocally 
demonstrative,  a  good  wife  and  a  good  mother,  producing  for  the  world  worthy 
sons  and  loving  daughters.  But  she  was  diametrically  opposed  to  what  was  easy 
going,  self  indulgent  indifference  to  rules,  or  to  any  training  that  was  luxurious 
and  in  a  sense  not  self  supporting.  At  an  extremely  early  age  her  children  were 
very  strictly  reared — some  way  they  had  no  irregular  pleasures  and  a  tender  con- 
science was  developed  beyond  their  years. 

I  was  quite  reckless  in  comparison  with  those  perfectly  behaved  cousins — I  am 
quite  sure  I  liked  things  even  at  that  age  distasteful  to  young  persons  so  rigidly 
reared;  for  festivals  and  ornaments,  and  the  negation  of  all  solemnity  or  of  any 
austere  spiritual  methods,  marked  me  out  from  the  first.  I  was  never  lonely  and 
I  was  always  allowed  room  to  dance  in  imaginatively:  so  little  was  demanded  with 
severity  that  I  could  create  means  of  enjoyment,  and  became  indifferent  to  any 
but  the  gayest  sort  of  existence.  I  was  therefore  ready  for  the  raptures  of  life; 
its  turmoils,  its  anxieties,  its  contests,  its  sorrows,  its  denials,  its  suffering  of  any 
sort  never  came  into  my  childhood's  thoughts  fancies  or  experiences — and  fears 
never  hindered  expression  or  dimmed  manifest  pleasures. 


Page  2Q 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


I  love  to  conjure  up  the  visions  and  traditions  of  my  childhood,  and  let  memory- 
fed  imagination  take  its  flights.  And  now  the  mental  panorama  turns  to  the  well 
regulated  family  of  my  Father's  brother.  Their  costumes,  their  customs,  their 
manners  differing  from  the  cheeriness,  the  breeziness,  and  the  freedom  of  mine! 
They  were  firm  where  I  was  yielding,  staunch  and  definite  where  I  was  shallow, 
light  and  buoyant.  They  were  shut  in  to  constant  activity  where  no  one  was 
allowed  to  dream  the  hours  away.  Idleness  was  never  permitted.  There  was  little 
open  enthusiasm,  and  apparently  few  outside  enjoyments,  but  the  family  Crest 
there  meant  what  was  truest  and  noblest  in  religious  faith  and  works. 

It  seems  to  me  that  perhaps  without  knowing  it  both  Aunt  Susan  Lunt  and 
my  own  Mother  exercised  a  sort  of  magnetic  will  over  their  husbands.  And,  as 
far  as  I  know,  it  has  been  so  ever  since  with  all  the  Lunts.  The  women  they  love, 
the  women  to  whom  they  give  their  name  command  not  only  devotion  and  service, 
but  it  seems  as  if  something  in  the  nature  of  the  men  yielded  readily  to  their  will 
and  purpose;  and  while  both  may  be  unquestionably  strong  the  definite  position 
of  the  wife  and  Mother  is  in  our  family  a  thing  as  dominant  as  it  is  prevalent  and 
permanent.  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  struggle  in  the  matter  for,  while  theirs  is 
the  ruling  voice,  harmony  seems  undisturbed;  certainly  there  is  no  lack  of  affection, 
and  those  close  ties  of  relationship  were  always  honoured  and  sustained.  In  my 
own  home  it  was  a  high  Heaven  of  love  and  trust. 

My  Uncle  William  Lunt  was  beautiful  in  countenance.  He  had  thick  hair 
like  his  Father's,  very  dark,  parted  at  the  side  and  combed  back  from  an  intelligent 
brow.  It  was  touched  with  grey  and  had  a  tendency  to  curl.  His  olive  skin  made 
a  contrast  with  very  white  teeth.  His  deeply  set  eyes  had  an  intense  blueness, 
almost  purple  like  a  pansy  and  with  a  strange  depth  of  sadness  in  them.  His  beard 
was  cut  round  and  short,  the  whiskers  grew  close  and  high  from  throat  to  cheek. 
He  had  a  well-shaped  figure  a  little  above  medium  size,  and  although  his  shoulders 
stooped  a  little  he  carried  himself  easily  and  with  distinction.  The  expression  of 
his  face  was  sympathetic,  the  lips  were  rather  thin  but  modelled  to  fineness,  and 
his  was  a  voice  always  low  and  restrained  to  gentleness.  Indeed  in  all  our  con- 
nection I  have  never  heard  a  voice  among  Lunts  or  Grays,  Sumners  or  Pattens, 
Evans  or  Cornells  that  fell  unpleasantly  on  the  ear.  They  are  usually  low-pitched 
and  agreeable  and  some  are  fortunately  sonorous  rich  and  musical.  I  have  always 
been  proud  of  the  well-bred  quiet  and  agreeable  voices  that  I  think  characterizes 
the  whole  circle,  but  my  Father's  was  especially  beautiful,  more  resonant,  warmer, 
more  musical  and  in  tone  and  inflection  challenged  all  others. 

I  can  easily  recall  preparations  for  the  special  visit  I  have  indicated  to  those 
little  Lunt  cousins,  because  I  was  so  disappointed  in  not  being  allowed  to  wear 
my  new  muslin  frock  with  green  sprigs  and  rose  buds,  of  which  I  was  inordinately 
proud,  or  to  adorn  myself  as  I  ardently  desired  with  my  tenth  Birthday  present, 
the  gold  locket  with  pictures  of  my  Father  and  Mother  inside — instead  of  such 
yielding  to  vanity  I  was  robed  in  a  fresh  gingham  of  green  and  white, — equally 
new  but  far  less  grand  I  thought — and  I  could  not  be  quite  satisfied  that  I  was 
not  more  decoratively  arrayed. 

The  impressions  of  the  visit,  except  my  dilating  and  telling  stories  to  Etta 
and  Sunie  that  seemed  almost  to  frighten  them,  has  largely  vanished.  Etta  how- 
ever had  something  startling  to  tell  me.  She  was  excited  in  her  mind  and  manner 
when  she  whispered  that  she  had  heard  of  the  possibility  of  her  going  to  New- 
buryport  with  Joe  and  me.  I  myself  knew  no  details  of  any  such  plan  ami  had 
not  taken  any  such  project  into  consideration.  I  remembered  hearing  my  Aunts 
talk  about  the  Ipswich  School  for  Young  Ladies  they  had  attended,  atul  that  some 
Tea*  her  there  had  a  School  for  little  girls  in  Newbury  port      that  was  all  1  knew  — 

but  Etta  declared  with  an  air  of  mystery,  "Anyway,  I  heard  mj   Mother  saj  to 

your  Mother,  thai    it    would   be   nice   to  have  ns  all   three  together  then1,  and   that 
M  like  to  send  me  with  you  and  Joe  and  would  try    tO  bring  it  about.'" 
Little  Sunie  listened  eagerly  to  our  diseussions,  never  showed  am    aversion  to 

being  left  out,  or  an)  envj  when  we  became  excited  anticipating  new  adventures, 
or  when  I  launched  forth  into  descriptions  of  whai   I  possessed,  what  1  wanted. 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


what  I  intended  to  do,  or  where  I  expected  to  go.  It  was  all  a  fairy  tale  to  the 
modest  demure  darling  little  girl.  Sunie  was  pretty,  like  her  Father  in  looks  even 
then,  the  same  dark  blue  eyes  easily  saddened,  the  same  well  moulded  features, 
the  same  abundance  of  dark  hair  growing  low  on  a  lovely  brow.  I  verily  believe 
that  child  could  not  remember  the  time  she  did  not  love  and  exemplify  in  her  own 
little  person  what  she  called  religion.  She  seemed  even  then  dedicated  to  that 
Shrine — And  to  serve  forever  as  an  Acolyte  at  that  High  Altar.  It  was  her  "Voca- 
tion" to  live  for  others,  to  serve  her  family  in  utter  unselfishness  which  to  the  end 
kept  her  "Unspotted  from  the  World".  In  the  ideas  and  fancies,  and  the  faces 
of  little  children,  there  is  something  it  would  require  the  thought  of  a  lifetime  to 
even  partially  analyze  or  comprehend. 

The  little  boys,  Will  and  Robert,  were  also  individual  and  about  the  same  age 
as  our  Horace  and  George.  They  never  seemed  troublesome,  and  the  active  element 
in  them  never  broke  into  any  abnormal  manifestations  in  company.  Something 
had  restrained  all  the  usual  turns  of  mischief,  of  boisterous  expressions  or  of  wild 
desires  for  fun.  They  had  learned  to  be  still,  and  were  never  roused  to  noisy 
action  when  I  was  present.  Perhaps  they  were  in  that  condition  of  character  or 
development  when  everything  is  transacted  inside.  The  many  undefined  inexplic- 
able impulses,  the  ways  children  have,  which  occasion  their  singular  actions — how 
can  those  not  in  their  confidence  pretend  to  any  measure  of  familiarity  with,  or 
do  them  perhaps  any  measure  of  justice? 

Little  Will,  the  older  one,  seemed  always  to  be  in  a  thinking  mood.  He  was 
decidedly  blonde  in  type,  bright-haired  blue-eyed  and  quiet  like  all  the  others. 
He  had  a  pair  of  eyes  that  were  always  looking  wistfully  out  of  doors  and  windows 
as  if  he  longed  even  then  for  flight,  and  visioned  new  fields  and  woods  and  wide 
Prairie  spaces  far  away  from  the  home-nest.  What  he  saw  no  one  knew.  He  was 
a  silent  child  and  could  scarcely  be  aware  of  any  possibilities  of  change  or  of  any 
different  existence,  but  he  liked  to  stand  at  the  windows  looking  out  and  whenever 
I  went  there  his  eager  little  face  was  usually  the  first  I  saw.  Possibly  windows 
on  the  street  were  congenial  to  meditations  in  which  the  small  boy  indulged.  He 
appeared  to  have  some  faculty  for  enduring  cold  or  heat,  or  anything  for  the 
price  of  solitude.  I  did  not  know  those  little  Lunts  very  well,  and  some  boys  are 
given  to  subjects  of  serious  thought  very  early,  much  earlier  than  older  people  are 
willing  to  believe.  I  knew  that,  because  my  own  little  brothers  always  alone  or 
together  had  occupations  or  interests,  or  some  unfathomed  pursuits  that  filled  their 
hours  and  were  quite  beyond  my  comprehension.  I  suppose  they  all  had  their  full 
share  of  castle  building,  but  I  believe  in  that  sex  the  constructive  faculty  gives 
them  scope  to  supply  satisfaction  in  whatever  they  are  doing  at  the  time,  and  to 
deepen  their  interest  and  efforts  in  various  subjects  that  may  be  quite  abstruse 
in  themselves. 

Little  Robert  was  fascinating — the  eyes  he  fixed  on  you  were  so  surprisingly 
lovely  that  they  foretold  possibilities  unusual  and  prophesied  a  personality  rarely 
attractive.  His  broad  smooth  forehead  over  the  irresistible  twinkle  in  those  dark 
eyes  gave  to  his  smile  a  peculiar  brightness.  One  loved  him  at  sight.  The  entire 
quality  of  little  children  lies  in  the  fact  that  they  have  personality.  They  are  such 
docile  targets  for  all  remarks,  and  sweet  endearments  lavished  on  certain  little  ones 
have  seemingly  no  effect.  They  appear  sometimes  to  resent  approach.  They  seem 
to  have  a  grip  on  things — on  the  real  thing,  unfledged  as  they  are — and  they  like 
you  or  not  for  reasons  often  palpable  but  that  they  alone  immediately  recognize 
or  understand. 

As  I  wash  it  all  with  the  vivifying  waters  of  recollection,  events  or  incidents 
have  largely  vanished,  except  that  we  played  happily  together;  but  were  not  allowed 
a  single  step  outside  the  yard.  And  that  particular  day  I  discovered  that  Etta 
could  jump  twenty  times  nearly,  up  and  down,  steady,  and  without  a  single  stop 
for  breath;  so  deftly  could  she  whirl  the  jumping-rope,  with  its  little  wooden 
handles  held  so  firmly  that  one  could  scarcely  follow  its  swift  curves,  and  her  own 
perfect  rythmic  motion — and  Sunie,  her  eyes  shining  like  stars,  said  that  she 
"could  jump  with  her  and  not  stop  for  a  long  time".    So  the  two  showed  me  what 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


I  had  never  seen  before,  jumping  in  unison  without  a  single  break.  The  two  in 
complete  harmony  of  motion  while  only  one  held  and  swung  the  rope!  It  was  a 
pretty  sight.  I  was  dared  to  the  trial  for  which  I  was  eager,  believing  in  my  own 
strength  and  skill,  but  after  the  first  spring  I  tripped  and  fell  ignominiously.  Down 
I  went,  bruising  hands  and  knees,  and  tearing  a  great  hole  in  my  clean  little  gingham 
frock,  as  well  as  soiling  skirts  and  underclothes  disgracefully.  The  whirling  rope 
stopped.  It  had  been  far  too  much  of  a  test.  The  stillness  was  appalling  as  I  got 
up  red  and  tearful,  and  the  eyes  of  both  stared  at  me  frightened,  while  I  gulped 
down  a  sob  or  two.  Etta  broke  the  silence,  "We'll  have  to  go  in  and  you'll  have  to 
show  it." 

Aunt  Susan  looked  unutterably  disturbed  as  we  trooped  into  her  presence,  a 
discomforted  trio.  "Oh  no  matter"  I  whispered, "I've  got  lots  of  dresses,  and  I'm 
glad  I  didn't  wear  my  best  muslin."  I  was  given  a  disapproving  look  and  heard 
in  cold  tones,  "Your  Mother  will  be  displeased.  You  must  have  been  careless. 
How  did  it  happen?"  looking  at  her  own  little  daughters — but  I  didn't  wait,  I 
took  it  out  of  their  trembling  little  mouths  and  gave  the  account  graphically,  at 
least  putting  the  blame  where  it  belonged.  "I  wanted  to  do  it  as  well  as  Etta 
and  Sunie — and  I  just  couldn't.  I  plumped  right  down  in  the  dust!  But  I'll 
learn — I'm  going  to  do  it  too,  I'm  going  to  keep  on  trying — it  must  be  great  fun." 
Aunt  Susan  actually  smiled  and  I  heard  the  children  laugh.  "You  see  Mother, 
she  can't  jump  very  well  and  she  thought  she  could — She  said  it  was  so  easy" 
and  quite  a  little  silvery  burst  of  merriment  followed.  "You  needn't  try  it  again 
here,  once  is  enough"  Aunt  Susan  remarked  emphatically,  while  she  brushed  me 
very  carefully,  and  proceeded  with  thread  and  needle  to  mend  that  tear  so  neatly 
that  I  thought  to  myself,  nobody  would  ever  see  it,  and  I  needn't  even  show  it  to 
Mother.  What  was  the  use  of  troubling  her?  But  still  holding  me  against  her 
knee  as  she  sewed,  I  heard  in  rather  stern  accents — "Be  sure  and  say  to  your 
Mother  that  I  have  done  the  best  I  could,  I  am  very  sorry  my  little  girls  could 
play  so  roughly.  Now  all  of  you  sit  down,  call  in  your  little  brothers  and  play  a 
game,  or  make  a  circle  on  the  floor  and  take  the  Jack-straws.  Etta  can  teach  you, 
Neanie,  how  to  pick  them  up — jumping  the  rope  isn't  all  she  can  do,"  and  at  my 
direct  enquiring  gaze — "She  can  sew  nicely,  and  sweep  and  dust  and  help  keep 
the  house  clean;  she  can  set  the  table,  and  is  going  to  learn  to  cook,  and  she  can 
dress  and  undress  her  little  brothers,  and  keeps  her  drawers  in  perfect  order." 

I  was  overcome  at  such  a  list  of  accomplishments,  not  one  of  them  mine,  and 
hoped  Sunie  was  defective  somewhere,  but  seeing  her  eager  look  of  expectancy 
the  Mother  smiled  on  her  and  added, — "Sunie  is  going  to  be  a  fine  little  house- 
keeper, she  can  knit  and  sew  already  and  keep  her  things  clean,  and  she  helps  me 
a  lot, — but  Sunie  hasn't  much  Purington  in  her — she  looks  like  her  Father." 
"But  he's  very  good-looking,  isn't  he?"  I  timidly  interrupted,  which  brought  an 
answer  I  long  remembered  with  joy.  "Oh  yes,  and  so  is  your  Father" — "And  do 
I  look  like  my  Father? — do  you  think  I'm  good-looking?"  and  my  voice  fairly 
trembled.  "Why  a  little  girl  can't  expect  to  look  like  a  big,  grown-up  very  hand- 
some man — but  when  you're  grown  up  I  think  you  will  look  very  much  like  your 
Father,"  which  filled  my  cup  to  overflowing.  I  had  been  struggling  between  the 
recollections  of  Grandfather  Gray's  "comforting  answer"  and  my  Grandmother's 
startling  words — "This  is  the  little  girl  that  looks  like  you,  Aria."  Mine  probably 
was  always  a  nature  active  in  the  generating  of  hope,  and  now  I  could  have  hugged 
Aunt  Susan — "I  was  going  to  look  like  Father,  and  Father  was  handsome."  I  dared 
not  make  any  demonstration,  as  I  felt  instinctively  Aunt  Susan  would  put  her 
finger  on  my  swelling  vanity,  for  she  never  had  time  for  weaknesses  of  thai  order, 
nor  would  she  he  patient  with  them  in  young  or  old.  "  Now  go  to  your  sanies  and 
Etta  will  show  you  how  to  play"  And  so  was  I  there  initiated  into  a  \en  quiet 
one  that   nc  veil  heless  called  for  skill,  steadiness  of  hand,  and  quickness  of  eye. 

M\  Uncle  William,  as  I  later  learned,  was  then  Considering  a  removal  of  all 
his  interests,  and  taking  his  family  tO,  what  was  then  called,  the-  far  West.  How- 
ever executive   and    faithful    in   a    business   sense   Ik-   could    not    flourish    tinaiuialK 

in  thn    in  ill  town,    lie  proposed  now  t"  mirrate  as  had  hi^  brother  Orrington 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


more  than  a  decade  before.  He  was  told  qf  the  larger  field  out  there,  and  that 
application  and  faithfulness  which  marked  his  course  would  certainly  bring  success. 
He  was  held  to  that  view  and  urged  to  action  by  his  clear-sighted  wife,  even  as  in 
the  case  of  my  own  Mother,  who  was  always  held  responsible  for  Father's  move, 
so  soon  after  their  marriage.  I  have  heard  from  various  sources  that  my  Mother 
felt  their  future  welfare  demanded  travelling  even  to  the  distant  Prairies,  and 
their  settling  in  the  young  and  energetic  little  City  of  Chicago.  The  outlook  while 
good  in  Maine,  was  entirely  too  restricted.  Her  ambitions  had  been  stirred  by 
what  she  had  heard  of  opportunities  in  that  part  of  our  country.  And  she  roused 
and  fed  my  Father's  resolution,  upheld  him  in  every  effort  and  never  faltered,  even 
in  that  first  hard  Winter  of  1842  and  the  Spring  of  my  birth  next  year  March  19, 
1843,  with  its  strain  of  prolonged  illness  which  so  nearly  cost  her  life.  Nothing 
crushed  or  daunted  her  and  faith  and  courage  kept  them  on  the  field. 

Perhaps  that  is  why  my  nature  from  the  first  was  active  in  the  generating  of 
hope.  We  were  all  in  a  sense  so  incredibly  young.  I  am  awe-struck  with  gratitude 
as  I  realize  what  their  leaving  that  narrow  New  England  life  meant  for  all  the 
Little  Lunts. 

THE    BOARDING    SCHOOL 

Newburyport,  Mass.,  1 853-1 854 

The  entire  course  of  my  life  was  now  to  be  changed.  It  suited  my  fancy  mightily 
when  asked  if  I  would  like  to  go  to  Boarding-school  with  my  cousin,  Etta  Lunt, 
and  little  Joe  Evans,  as  soon  as  AuntMargaret  could  consummate  arrangements? 
I  was  tremendously  interested  over  the  idea  it  sounded  so  like  a  story-book  adven- 
ture. 

We  were  certain,  at  the  small  family  school  selected,  to  be  brought  up  in  the 
fear  of  the  Lord,  and  instruction  in  the  Holy  Scriptures  was  very  properly,  from 
the  widow  of  the  Missionary's  point  of  view,  the  most  important  part  of  our  educa- 
tion. But  I  had  seemed  to  live  under  the  eaves  of  the  Sanctuary  without  any 
sense  of  bondage,  unaware  in  my  parents  of  either  bigotry  or  intolerance,  or  any 
enslavement.  And  here  the  despotism  exercised  over  the  ten  or  twelve  pupils 
never  seemed  benevolent.  Only  one  of  the  "grown-ups"  was  affectionately  re- 
garded. She  was  kind,  gentle  and  sweet  to  look  upon,  and  lent  encouragement 
to  an  existence  where  festivities  rarely  occurred,  and  most  pleasures  seemed  re- 
garded as  either  foolish  or  wicked  pastimes.  Her  Mother,  the  Head  of  the  House, 
was  tall  and  thin  and  taciturn,  an  extreme  Puritan  type.  The  hair  grey  and  very 
smooth,  very  sharp-eyed,  very  straight,  very  severe  looking,  and  the  verbal  shafts 
she  let  fly  reached  their  goal  passing  righteous  judgment  on  us  all.  She  insisted 
that  her  household  should  live  up  to  Scriptural  injunctions — and  I  at  first,  sat  in 
a  sort  of  hypnotized  astonishment  when  I  heard  that  deep  voice  demanding  sternly 
why  this  or  that  had,  or  had  not  been  done.  I  had  never  lacked  courage  to  assert 
myself;  but  the  first  evening  taught  me  that  I  no  longer  breathed  the  air  of  freedom. 
We  all,  at  the  supper  table,  had  been  asked,  "Which  will  you  have,  butter  or  mo- 
lasses?" presumably  to  make  the  dry  bread  edible — and  when  my  turn  came,  I 
answered  promptly — "Both!"  with  a  perfect  sense  of  security,  serene  in  the  belief 
of  my  own  right  to  have  all  I  wanted,  yet  with  no  excess  of  boldness.  Great  was 
my  astonishment  at  that  first  encounter  when,  for  reasons  I  could  not  comprehend, 
I  was  instantly  reprimanded.  "No — You  can  have  but  one — Understand!  it  is 
either  butter  or  molasses,  and  I  asked  you  which?"  The  dearest  friend  of  more 
mature  years,  always  declared  I  went  through  life  demanding  both!  that  neither 
butter  nor  molasses  alone  was  enough  for  me. 

No  such  suffering  from  such  small  self-denials  had  before  been  exacted  from 
me  without  adequate  explanations.  Reserves  and  reticences  and  unmovedness 
always  with  me  baffles  understanding,  and  suddenly,  as  she  spoke,  something 
snapped  like  a  whip  handle  and  I  wished  myself  off  somewhere  else.  Earthly 
faults  and  failures  stood  up  in  shape  unknown  before.  Lay  the  reason  to  the  fact 
that  I  knew  little  or  nothing  of  small  deprivations  or  restrictions,  and  the  entering 

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into  a  relation  so  personal  that  She,  a  stranger,  should  curb  my  lightly  expressed 
wish  filled  me  with  misgivings.  It  was  a  novel,  trivial,  new  aspect  of  human  nature 
embodied;  and  a  proceeding  of  restraining  power  I  met  for  the  first  time.  The 
situation  incommoded  me.  It  hinted  at  caution  in  future  demands.  I  was  not 
at  all  incensed,  or  even  markedly  embarrassed — only  something  depicted  itself 
at  that  particular  time  that  was  serviceable,  because  it  suggested  my  waiting  in 
silence  for  whatever  was  to  follow,  and  omitting  hereafter  any  flourish  of  words 
or  wishes. 

Soon  after  arrival,  one  stormy  afternoon  during  the  so-called  play  hour,  I  had 
a  sort  of  illumnative  recollection  of  the  force  and  frenzy  of  the  "  Whirling  Dervishes" 
as  pictured  in  a  traveller's  account  in  a  pamphlet  of  Grandfather's,  who  had  further 
enlightened  me  as  to  their  religious  beliefs  and  practises  to  which  I  had  listened 
in  wide-eyed  wonder.  "I  have  thought  of  a  new  play",  I  whispered  eagerly  to 
my  cousins,  to  Susie  and  the  little  Gleason  girls,  and  we  six  trooped  to  the  upper 
front  chamber  with  its  two  big  feather-topped  beds,  in  one  of  which  Etta  slept 
with  Mary  Waldron  and  Joe  and  I  in  the  other.  We  formed  a  circle  at  my  solemn 
directions  and  began  to  whirl  slowly,  increasing  speed  at  my  excited  demands — 
faster  and  faster.  "Keep  at  it  girls,  the  one  that  holds  on  longest  gets  to  Heaven 
first",  and  then  Susie  dropped  with  a  thud,  and  thump  thump  went  the  little 
Gleason  girls  and  Etta  tumbled  after.  At  that  moment  I  heard  a  foot-fall  on  the 
stairs,  softly  she  came  to  surprise  us;  but  I  sprang  to  the  door,  turned  the  key 
and  whispered  wildly,  "Oh  girls'  Mrs.  Spaulding",  and  in  a  sudden  access  of  fear 
we  all — little  cowards — dashed  under  the  beds.  A  quick  turning  of  the  knob 
which  resisted  entrance  and  made  the  intended  catching  us  unawares  impossible — 
a  jerk  and  sharp  call — "Open  at  once" — It  was  useless — the  door  was  shaking 
violently — no  escape  and  delay  dangerous.  Another  loud  call  with  punishment 
looming.  "This  instant  open  the  door,"  and  I  crawled  out  and  unlocked  the 
barrier.  One  glance  at  me  and  she  strode  across  the  room  and  lifted  the  copper- 
plate calico  cover  which  hung  to  the  floor  each  side.  "Come  out  this  minute, 
every  one  of  you"  and  the  trembling  quartet,  Etta,  Susie,  and  the  others  ranged 
themselves  beside  me.  "Is  that  all,"  in  the  same  stentorian  tones.  "No  Ma'am, 
I'm  here"  squealed  a  frightened  little  voice.  And  poor  little  Joe  who  could  have 
escaped  if  she'd  kept  still,  was  ordered  sternly, — "Come  out  this  instant".  She 
emerged  the  whitest  and  most  terrified  little  object,  crying  audibly,  and  in  muffled 
accents  repeating,  "I  won't  do  it  again,  I  won't  do  it  again,  Please  ma'am,  I  wont." 
And  spectacles  of  woe  we  were  marshalled  below  stairs  to  receive  sentence.  An 
extra  study  hour  then  and  there  in  the  deserted  school-room,  and  still  punitive 
justice  unsatisfied,  we  were  forbidden  all  chances  in  our  rooms  that  term;  and  in 
further  reprimand,  must  lose  the  coming  Saturday  half-holiday. 

The  noise  that  summoned  that  severe  judge  must  have  warranted  belief  in  a 
regiment  of  culprits.  At  each  new  uJtimatum  I  learned  the  hopelessness  of  argu- 
ment, and  I  speedily  realized  the  character  of  encounters  bound  to  ensue  if  I  ever 
undertook  to  assert  any  wish  outside  the  rules  of  the  school.  My  Militant  Guardian 
Angel  taught  me  soon  the  sense  of  security  in  silence  and  submission. 

One  day  Miss  Mary  told  us  if  we  wanted  to  write  well  to  begin  a  Journal  and 
put  down  what  happened  and  what  interested  us,  and  at  my  immediate  request,  she 
further  explained,  "You  can  write  whatever  you  chose,  and  no  one  need  see  it," 
and  she  smiled  at  my  interest  and  gave  me  a  mottled-covered  blank  book,  some 
pages  of  which  arc  still  in  existence. 

So,  perhaps  here,  a  few  excerpts  from  my  first  efforts  may  throw  further  Light 
on  the  experiences  of  no  unusual  or  outside  interest,  but  significant  as  to  growth 

either  mentally  or  morally — both  of  whieh    I    have   thought    retarded   in  a   sense, 
although   ni\'  amused  family  have  declared  that   "No  one  could  have  prophesied 
what   I  would  have  become  without  the  discipline  at  Newbui  v  pO1 1  ! 
The  quotations  thai   follow  tell  their  own  arid  little  tale. 

October  rf,  1854. 

"Mrs.   Spaulding  seems  to  think   we   play   tOO  much  ever  since  that   afternoon 

recess  when  we  all  powdered  our  hair  with  some  flour  somebody  had  stolen,  and 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


pinned  leaves  all  over  our  dresses,  to  pretend  we  were  foreigners.  Miss  Coffin 
saw  us  first,  and  called  us  in  to  brush  off  and  get  clean  before  any  one  else  knew  it. 
Miss  Coffin  laughed  we  looked  so  funny,  and,  Oh,  what  a  time  we  had  shouting 
and  laughing  at  each  other,  until  we  were  found  out  and  got  scolded.  We  couldn't 
get  that  flour  out  of  our  hair.  I  have  enjoyed  good  health,  I  never  feel  sick  like 
Mary  and  Susie,  I  scarcely  know  how  to  be  thankful  enough,  and  another  very 
great  blessing  is  that  my  Parents  and  brothers  are  also  enjoying  the  great  blessing 
of  good  health.  We  have  the  most  beautiful  sunsets  here  I  ever  saw.  I  got  my 
package  today.  It  contained  my  winter  coat  and  a  pretty  new  red  marino  dress. 
And  my  tippet  newly  lined  with  cherry  silk.  It  looks  twice  as  well  as  it  did  before; 
but  I  wish  I  had  a  new  muff." 
October  20. 

"I  received  a  letter  from  my  own  dear  Mother  Tuesday  morning.  It  was 
written  from  Boston  and  they  were  going  to  New  York  that  afternoon  to  buy 
furniture  for  the  new  home,  and  after  November  first  I  was  to  address  all  my 
letters  to  171  Michigan  Avenue.  Mother  asked  me  if  I  was  brave  and  good,  and 
asked  me  not  to  cry  and  be  homesick,  so  I  will  try  and  smile  oftener.  She  said 
people  loved  to  see  smiles.  Mother  dear  Mother  how  I  long  to  see  you  again, 
God  forever  bless  my  dear  Parents  and  brothers.  I  asked  Susie  if  she  didn't  think 
my  little  brother  George  was  beautiful,  and  had  beautiful  yellow  curls,  and  she 
wouldn't  answer  at  first,  but  after  hesitating  for  a  short  time  she  said,  "Yes" — 
very  slowly — "I  think  he  looks  well  enough  but  his  curls  aren't  very  long.'"  I  don't 
like  her  for  that,  and  besides  she  hasn't  any  spirit  playing,  she'd  just  as  lief  be  a 
beggar  girl  as  anything  else.  She  is  Motherless  and  her  Father  is  a  Doctor  of 
Divinity  and  that  makes  me  sorry.  She  hasn't  any  beautiful  brothers  and  she  has 
to  live  with  a  married  sister.  I'll  try  to  like  her  some;  but  not  the  way  I  do  little 
Sarah.  She  is  only  nine  and  she  has  to  wear  black  stockings.  I  never  saw  a  pair 
before;  but  I  read  once  of  a  little  girl  whose  Mother  went  Missionarying,  and  an 
ugly  Aunt  put  all  her  lovely  white  ones  into  a  pot  and  dyed  them  black.  Poor 
thing!  she  has  to  wear  long  dark  woolen  dresses,  I  mean  Sarah,  and  her  Mother 
is  so  queer.  Whenever  she  comes  to  visit  here  she  prays  so  long  after  supper,  and 
her  voice  goes  up  and  down  awfully  funny,  I  never  heard  such  a  voice,  she  almost 
screeches  as  if  the  Lord  couldn't  hear,  it  makes  Carrie  and  me  laugh  behind  our 
hands  and  nudge  each  other  when  we  are  on  our  knees." 
October  ji. 

"I  received  a  letter  from  my  very  dear  Mother,  it  is  very  kind  of  my  Mother 
to  write  me  so  regularly.  She  says  that  next  year  I  shall  attend  a  Seminary  for  young 
ladies  now  being  erected  in  Chicago.  I  am  now  writing  a  story  which  I  have 
located  in  Newport,  the  name  of  it  is  "The  Blond  and  the  Brunette"  and  I  am 
describing  my  Mother  for  the  Blond,  and  my  Aunt  Helen  for  the  Brunette,  Oh 
how  good  God  is  to  me  to  give  me  such  Parents. 

Next  year  if  we  all  live  and  nothing  happens  to  prevent  what  happiness  shall 
I  enjoy!  For  dinner  today  we  had  salt  fish,  potatoes  and  butter,  squash  and  cab- 
bage and  I  hate  both;  home  bread  and  course  brown  bread  and  for  dessert  baked 
apple  pudding.  Its  better  than  dried  apple  pie,  the  crust  is  so  thick  it  gags  me 
sometimes  and  I  go  out  and  almost  vomit,  but  I  am  hungry  so  I  eat  it.  Miss  Davis 
gave  me  "Snowflake  Polka"  for  my  last  music  lesson,  but  she  says  she  won't  give 
me  such  an  easy  piece  again. 
November  2. 

"As  I  was  descending  the  stairs  yesterday  morning  Mary  Waldron  slipped 
into  my  hands  a  large  round  gum-drop.  It  was  mighty  good  of  her,  she  had  on 
a  beautiful  large  plaid  dress,  it  was  blue  and  yellow  and  had  yellow  trimming, 
but  she  got  out  of  Church  by  saying  that  she  had  a  terrible  toothache.  She  often 
has  cramps  in  her  legs  and  I  jump  out  of  bed  and  rub  them,  she  makes  me  do 
it  a  long  time  before  she  stops  groaning  and  I  am  tired  of  doing  it.  She  never  calls 
anyone  else  and  I  have  to  kneel  by  the  bed  when  I  am  rubbing  and  my  feet  get 
cold  as  ice,  and  Carrie  told  me  "She  could  have  cramps  in  her  legs  all  she  wanted 
to  for  all  of  her,"  But  I  hate  to  hear  her  say — "Oh'  how  it  hurts,  do  come  Neanie, 


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come  quick,    do    rub    them    hard" — and    so    I    do   and    that's    the   only   reason. 
November  g. 

Miss  Coffin  said  that  if  we  spoke  without  raising  our  hands  for  permission,  or 
whispered  once  she  would  have  to  put  a  mark  against  our  names,  and  at  a  specified 
time  show  them  to  Mrs.  Spaulding  and  there  would  be  a  penalty  assigned  for  a 
certain  number  of  marks  as  those  were  her  orders.  But  she  said  it  was  not  her 
arrangement  and  she  blushed  when  we  looked  up  at  her  to  the  very  temples,  she 
has  a  dimple.  Miss  Coffin  is  pretty  and  I  think  I  shall  put  her  in  my  story.  I 
will  have  another  girl  not  quite  so  pretty  as  my  Aunt  Helen.  I'd  like  to  make 
Mrs.  Spaulding  an  Ogre.  I  haven't  cried  since  I  came  the  way  I  did  when  she  took 
away  the  box  of  candy  Mother  sent  me.  She  said  my  Mother  couldn't  have  known 
that  it  was  against  the  rules,  that  she  never  let  the  girls  have  candy  in  term  time, 
and  Oh!  when  she  took  that  box  and  put  it  up  on  a  high  shelf  in  the  closet  I  almost 
screamed.  "It's  your  candy  of  course  and  you  can  have  it  when  Christmas  comes 
and  you  go  to  your  Aunt  in  Boston."  I  try  not  to  see  it  when  I  go  by  but  the 
corner  sticks  out  and  Mother  gave  it  to  me.  I  just  hated  Mrs.  Spaulding  and 
I'll  make  a  face  at  her  when  her  back's  turned.  And  I  hope  she  won't  go  to  Heaven! 
So  there! 
November  15. 

We  are  in  Subtraction  of  Vulgar  Fractions  now  and  in  Latin  we  are  almost 
to  the  life  of  Joseph.  Miss  Mary  says  that  next  term  Carrie  and  I  may  drop 
arithmetic  for  a  while  and  take  up  History  and  draw  maps.  I  am  at  the  head  of 
the  spelling  class  all  the  time.  Last  week  Carrie's  and  my  clothes  were  starched. 
Harriet  told  me  Mrs.  Spaulding  did  not  allow  her  to  starch  the  girl's  clothes.  But 
I  rather  think  she  starched  mine  because  I  gave  her  two  pears  from  the  basket  of 
fruit  Mother  sent  me.  She  wrote  Aunt  Nancy  to  buy  it  in  Boston  for  me,  and 
perhaps  Carrie's  clothes  were  starched  because  she  has  such  few  pieces. 
November  i%. 

Yesterday  afternoon  Carrie  and  I  were  real  saucy  to  Miss  Coffin.  I  will  relate 
the  circumstances.  Miss  Coffin  called  the  first  class  in  reading.  We  all  took  our 
places.  Carrie  was  head  and  she  gave  her  Reader  to  Miss  Coffin  and  turned  to 
look  over  with  me.  I  opened  my  book  to  find  the  place.  "No  let  me"  said  Carrie. 
It  was  my  book  and  I  held  on.  She  insisted  she  would  have  it,  and  seeing  I  wouldn't 
let  her  but  grabbed  it  tighter  every  minute,  she  spoke  up  loud  to  Miss  Coffin. 
"Can't  I  find  the  place,  I  won't  read  if  I  can't."  Miss  Coffin  said  "You  will  if  I 
tell  you  to".  "I  shan't  unless  you  make  Neanie  give  me  that  book,  I  am  head  of 
the  class  today, — it's  my  day."  "Give  it  to  her  Neanie"  I  heard  in  a  gentle  voice. 
"She  has  no  right  to  my  book,  I  was  head  yesterday  and  I'll  be  head  tomorrow, 
Carrie  had  better  mind  her  own  business  and  let  me  alone."  Miss  Coffin  looked 
at  us  and  never  said  another  word.  I  felt  queer,  but  I  found  the  place  myself, 
and  then  handed  it  to  Carrie,  and  she  read  without  a  word  and  as  soon  as  we  got 
through  I  ran  and  got  the  biggest  bunch  of  grapes  in  the  basket  Mother  sent  me 
and  gave  them  to  Miss  Coffin,  and  she  smiled  and  her  dimple  looked  so  pretty 
and  I  tried  to  say  something,  "I — I  wish  I  hadn't,"  and  Miss  Coffin  took  my  hand 
and  I  felt  something  choke  me,  and  winked  very  hard.  And  Miss  Coffin  pressed 
my  hand,  "Never  mind  Neanie,"  she  said,  and  told  me  she  was  very  much  obliged 
for  the  grapes.  And  that  evening  when  she  went  home  after  school  she  kissed  inc. 
Just  think!  she  never  kissed  any  of  the  girls  before,  and  1  shouldn't  have  thought 
she  would  have  done  it  today  of  all  days  when  I  had  been  so  saucy.  I  will  never 
speak  so  again  Never  Never. 
Ik  ,  ember  ./. 

This  is  in)-  little  brother  George's  birthday,  and  I  expeel  Mahaly  will  make 

him  a   little  cake  wilh   three  candles  and    I    know    Mother  will  let    him   have  .1   piece 
(.1  candy,     Some  limes  I  long  to  see  Mother  so  it  seems  as  if  I  should  fly.     Mother — 

Mothei     I  low  \ei\  much  I  do  hue  you.    Mow  pleasanl  it  is  to  feel  that  Mother 

dearly.     I   know  she  dot  ■    because  she  told  me  so  in  her  last  letter. 

Wednesday    tfternoont  December  to. 

Mar}  Waldron  >  ed  to  be  married.    She  whispered  it  to  me  and  said  his 


/'<;/v   ,■<"> 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


name  was  Eddie  Crawford.  Oh,  it  is  so  very  silly — A  girl  of  fourteen.  She  says 
she  is  writing  to  him  now  and  keeps  saying,  Sh — Sh — Sh — if  I  say  a  word  about 
her  horrid  boy,  for  he  must  be  horrid.  "If  you  ever  breathe  a  word  I'll  never  tell 
you  one  of  my  secrets  again  as  long  as  I  live."  I  never  asked  her  to  tell  me  her 
secrets,  and  I  do  think  it  is  low  for  her  to  be  cutting  up  such  capers.  I  don't  ap- 
prove of  them  certainly.  Yesterday  we  had  such  a  beautiful  snowfall  and  every- 
thing is  so  white  and  shining  now.  All  the  girls  have  some  marks  against  their 
names  for  speaking  improperly  but  Miss  Coffin  told  me  I  had  none.  Wasn't  it 
wonderful.  Oh,  the  twenty-second  will  it  never,  never  come?  I  am  going  to  Boston 
to  be  with  Aunt  Nancy  for  the  holiday  vacations  and  I  am  to  visit  Carrie  in  Dor- 
chester. 
December  20. 

Father  told  me  his  first  Ancestor  was  one  of  the  founders  of  Newburyport — 
his  name  was  Henry  Lunt  and  he  came  over  awfully  long  ago  and  they  are  as 
thick  as  flies  now,  I  mean  the  people  named  Lunt.  But  in  Chicago  there  is  nobody 
named  Lunt  but  Father.  It  is  so  far  from  Newburyport  I  suppose,  and  Miss  Mary 
said  they  were  home  loving  people  and  didn't  like  to  roam.  Yesterday  Carrie 
was  mad  about  something  and  said  it  was  so  stupid  here  she  felt  crazy  to  have  to 
stay  two  more  days.  My  Uncle  Horace  is  coming  to  take  me  to  Boston  and  Carrie 
is  going  home  at  the  same  time. 

Then  I  thought  up  a  play  to  use  up  the  time.  And  Carrie  asked  Mrs.  Spaulding 
if  we  could  stay  upstairs  in  her  room  and  Mrs.  Spaulding  graciously  said  yes, 
because  we  were  going  away  in  two  days  I  guess.  Little  Sarah  sleeps  with  Carrie 
and  we  called  Susie  in  and  I  gave  them  all  strict  injunctions.  Susie  was  to  be  lover 
and  little  Sarah  a  fair  maiden,  Carrie  was  to  abduct  her  for  me,  and  I  was  Brigand 
in  a  cave.  The  name  of  the  play  was  "The  Cave  of  Despair"  and  I  made  it  up 
right  then,  but  I  did  not  tell  them.  I  told  them  I  was  Captain  of  the  Band  and  the 
maiden  was  my  "Pray", and  Carrie  must  drag  her  off  up  in  the  corner  by  the  bed 
which  we  called  the  Cave  and  say  "Death  or  Dishonour".  They  wouldn't  play 
nicely,  Sarah  wouldn't  do  it  right.  "When  I  told  her  she  mustn't  choose  Dishonour, 
she  said  she  wouldn't  say  Death,  because  she  didn't  want  to  die,  and  Carrie  got 
cross  and  said  "What's  the  difference — Let  her  say  what  she  wants  for  mercy's 
sakes,"  and  I  told  her  they  always  got  rescued  if  they  said  the  right  thing,  I  had 
read  it  lots  of  times  and  it  was  going  to  be  a  noble  play.  But  it  all  got  spoiled 
because  Sarah  began  to  cry.  I  just  hate  whimpering,  nobody  wanted  to  do  it  right, 
Susie  said  she  was  tired  and  ran  out,  and  she  was  a  fearful  disappointment  to  me. 
Anyway  she  isn't  coming  back  next  term  and  I  thought  I  was  sorry,  but  we  will 
have  a  new  girl  in  her  place." 

The  experiment  of  Boarding  School  for  me  was  far  from  satisfactory;  but  after 
long  periods  of  watching  and  waiting  I  had  become  relatively  reconciled;  nothing 
could  wipe  out  wholly  my  confidence  or  sweep  away  the  comfort  of  my  innermost 
self,  because  the  whole  fabric  of  my  life  had  been  built  on  security,  and  no  unknown 
or  incalculable  power  could  readily  destroy  it.  However  gloomy  or  prison-like  the 
house  sometimes  seemed  I  pursued  my  way,  finally  enduring  the  occasionally 
withering  sarcasms,  that  often  in  disapproval  measured  me  from  top  to  toe  with 
cold  critical  glances,  in  an  ever  growing  indifference. 

The  barometer  rose  as  soon  as  I  was  out  of  sight  of  the  One  who  held  such  tight 
reins,  and  Carrie  Reid  had  become  my  chosen  chum.  We  laughed  and  talked 
much  together,  and  allowed  our  fancies  full  flower  in  a  game  which  we  played  often, 
walking  up  and  down  the  big  yard.  We  would  meet  and  part — exchange  polite 
greetings  as  Mrs.  Seymour  and  Mrs.  Gordon,  our  chosen  married  titles.  We  were 
each  the  proud  Mother  of  seven  children  whose  adventures  were  in  turn  glowingly 
recounted.  We  were  always  devising  startling  incidents  to  attract,  and  arouse  in 
our  individual  consciousness  the  poignant  certainty  of  the  supremacy  and  greater 
charms  our  own  little  ones  could  show.  I  ranged  afar  in  wondrous  tales  to  prove 
transcendant  gifts  in  mine,  and  to  manifest  in  my  progeny  points  of  vantage  un- 
approachable! It  was  very  exciting  to  work  for  their  pre-eminence,  and  some- 
times effecting  such  wonders  produced  emotions  that  made  for  sharp  comments 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


of  disbelief,  and  sudden  separations!  I  was  hardly  fitted  by  nature,  however  sharp 
our  differences,  or  quarrels  over  facts  of  possibility,  to  cease  strenuous  efforts  to 
prove  my  children  superior,  and  finer  than  hers.  I  must  concede  now  that  my 
pictures  of  their  strange  performances  showed  surprising  contradictions  and  they 
produced  frequent  contention. 

Curiously  enough  in  my  regular  letters  home  I  never  once  wrote  of  what  was 
hard  and  unpleasant,  I  some  way  did  not  think  of  complaining.  I  had  no  experience 
of  great  grievance.  I  was  never  personally  abused,  and  outside  the  dreary  round 
my  spirits  always  rose  responsive  to  fresh  air  and  sunlight.  To  many  details  my 
mind  reacted  rather  than  noted  the  comparative  coldness,  or  the  lack  of  warmth 
which  had  hitherto  always  surrounded  me.  Brought  up  in  that  sheltered  happiness 
where  all  things  were  tempered  I  had  never  suffered  from  uncertainties  or  fears, 
and  I  was  immensely  less  fitted  to  understand  and  meet  small  difficulties  than  those 
who  had  known  struggles  or  friction  in  their  home  life. 

So  youthful  good  spirits  asserted  themselves,  and  the  future  seemed  assured 
as  forebodings  fled  and  self-confidence  refused  to  weaken.  And  while  that  present 
did  not  please  me  it  could  not  hold  me.  I  supposed  or  concluded  it  was  always 
that  way  at  schools,  that  there,  one  was  inevitably  reduced  to  a  state  of  subjuga- 
tion, and  the  habit  of  going  unchecked  after  what  one  wanted  could  be  allowed 
no  compromise. 

But  my  curtailed  imagination  ran  riot  in  secret  when  the  girls  grew  to  demand 
stories  and  would  ask  so  frequently — "Now  Neanie  tell  us  again  what  we  all  wish 
would  happen  to  Mrs.  Spaulding?"  Since  her  taking  away  the  one  box  of  candy 
I  had  had,  she  embodied  what  caused  rebellion  to  rage  in  my  soul.  I  was  brilliantly 
successful  to  the  delight  of  all  my  school-mates  in  depicting  horrors,  and  creating 
scenes  of  terrible  drama  where  the  Head  of  the  House  could  not  escape  the  devised 
defeats  and  torments  which  expressed  retaliation.  She  was  thus  miraculously 
made  to  suffer;  and  in  one  way  and  another  my  vivid  interest  in  life  continued, 
and  laughter  was  mine  at  all  times. 

Carrie  was  always  so  bright  and  responsive  and  she  had  the  immeasurable 
advantage  of  knowing  how  to  smooth  down  the  irateness  of  our  ruler,  who,  very 
evidently,  had  a  marked  preference  for  that  brown-eyed  little  Bostonian.  As  I 
said  before,  it  was  indisputable  that  the  small  specimen  from  Chicago  held  no  such 
personal  charms.  There  was  a  sparkle  about  Carrie  that  was  beautifully  proved 
one  night  at  supper. 

Over  our  Bible  verses  we  had  come  to  try  regularly  to  outdo  each  other  by  their 
length  or  the  importance  of  their  selection.  Before  each  evening  meal  we  sat 
silent  after  grace:  In  turn  each  child  repeated  the  verse  committed  for  that  day 
with  which  we  were  always  to  prepare  ourselves.  We  had  been  solemnly  told 
when  first  initiated  that  no  circumstances  should  ever  arise  that  ought  to  find  us 
lacking  in  suitable  selections. 

But  Oh!,  one  fatal  Sunday  evening  for  me,  our  gloating  eyes  fell  on  piles  of 
snow-white  bakers  bread  of  very  different  quality  and  consistency  from  that  served 
daily.  I  have  never  understood  why  it  appeared  on  that  single  occasion  unless 
there  was  strife  in  the  kitchen,  and  a  dearth  of  what  was  usually  set  before  us; 
for,  to  my  recollection,  I  never  saw  its  like  again.  It  was  Heavenly  Manna  to  my 
imagination  when  beyond  my  reach.  Whatever  that  household  contingency  our 
eyes  glistened  as  they  fell  on  the  tempting  plate,  ami  those  white  sliees  appealed 
as  a  blessing  no  less  appreciated  than  the  plum  preserves,  which  were  served  once 
in  a  while  as  the  greatest  treat. 

Every   detail   rises   before   me.      I   can   feel   this   minute  the  gUStO  with   which    I 

Beated  myself  ami  whispered  to  my  equally  eager  neighbour,  "Mercy!,  Look  at 
the  bread"     "Verses  first,"  she  retorted.    The  usual  solemn  ceremony  of  repetition 

had  reached  u.;  but   when   I   heard  Carrie  beside  me  sav  earnestly      "  Lord  evermore 

give  us  this  Bread"  I  was  instantly  fired  not  to  be  daunted,  not  to  be  outdone; 
impatience  for  the  bread  was  lost  for  a  Becond  as  spurred  with  sudden  ambition 

my   mind   leaped   to  the  onlj    Verse    I    COuld   recall,      It    was   not   so  stricllv    relative 

I  arrie's;  bui   it   seemed  sufficiently  important.     Firmly  and  clearly   it   was 


Pagt  rv 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


enunciated — "/  am  the  Bread  of  Life."  They  had  tittered  at  Carrie's.  They  broke 
order  and  laughed  aloud  at  mine.  "Neanie,  leave  the  table.  Go  to  your  room. 
You  will  spend  the  evening  alone."  There  was  no  "present  help"  for  me  in  that 
desperate  "time  of  trouble".  Carrie  had  scored  her  great  victory.  And  I — 
Alas!  I  never  tasted  that  Bread. 

THE    FIRST    VACATION 

Boston,  Mass. 

What  we  hear,  think  or  see  produces  many  results  of  which  we  are  not  aware. 
The  smallest  events  often  play  their  part  in  moulding  the  machinery  of  our  mental 
or  spiritual  life,  in  making  an  indelible  record,  and  difficult  as  it  may  be  to  entirely 
decipher  or  recall  them  their  influence  is  always  working. 

I  am  only  interested  with  the  conscious  processes,  and  illustrative  experiences 
rise  easily  in  the  simplest  occurrences — not  in  the  least  uncommon;  but  significant 
because  they  link  the  common  with  the  seemingly  unusual  and  are  individual  and 
impressive  as  belonging  exclusively  to  the  writer. 

These  Sketches  have  application  to  development  and  I  can  explain  them  to 
myself  sometimes  by  a  flash  of  insight,  and  think  and  write  rapidly,  extensively 
and  correctly  even  in  the  very  language  of  my  childhood.  A  certain  Physcologist 
has  said,  "The  method  of  recall  is  the  association  of  ideas,  and  if  we  once  can  pull 
the  right  string  all  sorts  of  forgotten  memories  will  come  into  consciousness." 
Evidently  impressions  made  upon  the  mind  are  retained  and  used  without  any 
sense  of  dependence  upon  an  efficient  memory;  but  we  are  not  supplied  with  in- 
formation sufficient  for  their  solution.  The  dreams,  longings  and  golden  panoramas 
of  life  rolled  up  in  the  film  of  memory,  their  richness  of  colour,  strangeness  of 
thought  and  fervour  of  emotion,  I  do  not  believe,  are  wholly  lost. 

The  delight  of  that  moment,  when  learning  Captain  Gray  was  waiting  for  us, 
and  I  dashed  into  Carrie's  room  in  excitement,  was  sobered  to  see  her  seated  on 
the  side  of  the  bed,  cloak  and  little  hood  all  on  and  hands  calmly  folded  in  her 
muff,  with  a  well  stuffed,  funny  looking  shiny  black  carpet  bag  at  her  feet.  In 
the  hush  of  that  second  she  looked,  to  my  bewildered  gaze,  unusually  pretty. 
She  had  such  white  teeth  and  brown  eyes  under  thick  curling  lashes.  I  had  often 
wished  mine  were  not  blue  and  that  I  resembled  a  brunette! 

"What's  the  matter?  It's  time  to  go!  My  Uncle's  downstairs!  Where's 
your  trunk?"  "Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  take  my  things  home  when  I've 
got  to  come  back?  I've  got  plenty  there  anyway,  and  this,"  kicking  the  bag, 
"is  full  of  dirty  clothes  that  I've  kept  out  of  the  wash  and  I've  got  to  carry  it 
down  myself."  "Why,  I'll  help  you,"  I  said,  and  suddenly  her  passionate  tone 
changed  to  a  good  humoured  one.  She  gave  me  a  side  look  and  a  little  grin,  "Don't 
you  know  I  had  to  have  a  few  in  the  wash  to  please  the  old  lady,  and  here  they 
go  home  and  I'll  be  scolded;  but  I  don't  know  what  for,  I  get  in  hot  water  so  easy 
there." 

"Oh!  who  cares,  come  on,"  and  imperatively  I  turned,  and  with  little  muttered 
exclamations  we  dragged  the  huge  carpet-bag  between  us,  which  thumped  down 
the  stairs  and  brought  Mrs.  Spaulding  to  the  scene.  She  held  in  her  hand  the 
box  of  candy  my  Mother  had  sent  me  three  months  before,  and  with  words  of 
caution  as  to  behaviour,  she  ushered  us  into  the  room  where  my  Uncle  waited. 

He  was  a  large  man  with  an  unusually  humorous  expression,  and  patting  us 
on  head  and  shoulders  said  jovially  "Ahoy!  Ahoy  little  ship-mates,  Let's  be  off" 
and  shaking  hands  with  Mrs.  Spaulding  picked  up  Carrie's  carpet-bag  as  if  it 
were  a  paper  parcel.  My  own  little  horse-hair  covered  trunk  I  saw  strapped  on 
behind  the  old  hack  and  we  were  hilariously  piled  in  and  soon  steaming  out  of  the 
town  and  far  away. 

I  have  never  mentioned  Uncle  Horace's  fine  house  on  the  hill  opposite  my 
Grandfather  Gray's  which  I  passed  every  time  I  turned  towards  Grandfather 
Lunt's.  It  had  a  very  shut-up  look,  the  parlour  was  always  dark;  but  there  were 
beautiful  things  from  over-seas,  and  the  furniture  looked  very  heavy  and  handsome. 
They  said  his  wife  painted,  and  I  thought  it  was  pictures  instead  of  her  cheeks, 

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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


but  I  saw  always  how  very  red  they  were,  and  that  she  never  seemed  well  or  at 
ease.  My  Aunts  did  not  like  their  oldest  brother's  wife,  but  all  I  ever  heard  was 
that,  "She  was  a  Tinker,  that  no  one  could  expect  anything  better  of  the  Tinker's 
— a  family  that  lived  on  the  outskirts — that  it  was  true  she  was  pretty,  but  Horace 
must  have  been  crazy  to  marry  her." 

They  had  no  children;  and  I  only  remember  taking  a  meal  once  in  that  pre- 
tentious house,  and  having  all  the  red-currants  and  purple  plums  I  wanted,  and 
that  the  cakes  were  small  and  had  sugar  on  the  top.  I  didn't  care  for  Aunt  Eliza, 
but  my  Uncle  Horace  was  jolly,  he  gave  me  pretty  shells  and  showed  me  a  model 
of  his  "Big  Ship"  and  said  he  would  bring  me  something  pretty  from  Russia, 
where  he  was  going  on  his  next  voyage.  But  I  never  felt  well  acquainted,  as  with 
Uncle  William  or  Uncle  John,  until  that  day  hurrying  towards  Boston. 

Carrie  and  I  disposed  of  a  goodly  amount  from  the  Candy  box  he  handed  over, 
old  and  stale,  and  someway  sticking  in  my  throat,  reviving  sharply  that  sense  of 
injury  from  its  long  detention — "Better  than  nothing,"  Carrie  exclaimed,  and 
"I  like  candy  better  than  fruit.  We  have  fruit  orchards  and  if  it  wasn't  winter 
there'd  be  lots  of  apples  and  pears  and  plums  and  grapes."  And  with  astonishing 
irrelevance  the  question — "Do  you  like  Olives?"  "Are  they  big"  I  countered. 
"Mercy!  don't  you  know, — Why  you  must  eat  ten  before  you  can  like  them, 
but  don't  make  a  fuss  or  splutter  swallowing,  or  Mother  will  say  you  are  silly  and 
send  you  from  the  table.  No,  she  won't,  you'll  be  a  visitor,  but  you'd  better  not 
hate  Olives,  or  say  you  don't  like  anything  on  the  table,  for  Mother  will  tell  us 
you  are  under-bred — that's  awful  you  know." 

I  was  rather  frightened  at  that  picture  so  unflinchingly  presented,  and  I  de- 
termined secretly  in  a  sort  of  panic  to  hurry  and  eat  those  ten  Olives,  big  or  little, 
and  gain  her  Mother's  good  opinion.  I  felt  splendidly  direct  in  a  steadfast  purpose 
not  to  quail  at  any  such  test. 

About  Carrie  there  was  something  clean  and  valiant  and  I  never  had  to  com- 
promise with  my  liking,  and  I  think  I  looked  candid  and  fearless  interrogation 
as  I  turned  my  face  and  said — "I  guess  your  Mother  will  like  me?" — and  in  equally 
candid  knowledge  she  responded — "Mother's  only  twenty-nine  and  she  has 
notions." 

My  lovely  Mother  was  thirty-five  on  her  last  Birthday  I  murmured,  and  felt 
a  homesick  stab  that  hurt  and  filled  me  with  unutterable  longing.  I  was  sorry 
she  was  so  old;  but  she  wouldn't  care  whether  I  ate  ten  Olives  or  not,  and  I  was 
sure  she  was  prettier  than  Carrie's  Another!  I  kept  winking  away  the  sudden 
rush  of  tears,  and  just  then  my  Uncle  produced  a  good  sized  package  which  checked 
home-sickness  and  aroused  considerable  satisfaction.  It  was  a  great  treat,  two  big 
squares  of  Berwick  Sponge  Cake. 

There  never  was  such  sponge-cake  in  all  the  world  as  that  made  by  some  woman 
in  North  Berwick,  Maine.  You  might  say  it  had  a  national  reputation  for  whenever 
trains  went  through  all  the  passengers  emptied  out  and  went  to  the  counter,  to 
purchase  the  delectable  golden  squares  so  fine  you  could  tear  off  strips  as  if  from 
delicate  muslin,  smooth  as  silk  in  its  delicate  grain  and  with  a  brown  rich  top — 
"Just  like  the  shiny  brown  oil-cloth  in  our  back  hall,"  cried  Carrie  in  glee,  as  we 
opened  the  white  paper  parcels. 

That  promised  treat  for  us  nearly  cost  mc  my  life,  I  swallowed  great  mouth's 
full  so  fast  and  greedily  that  I  failed  to  stop  as  my  throat  got  dry — It  closed  with 
a  chunk  I  could  not  down  and  the  choke  increased  till  I  could  neither  gasp  nor  cry 
out.  "Why's  she's  choking,  Oh  Captain  Gray,  she's  going  to  die"  veiled  my  little 
companion.  I  think  I  must  have  been  purple  in  the  face,  1  could  not  seem  to  see 
or  speak,  and  my  amazed  Uncle  caught  hold  of  me  and  poured  something  awlul 
down  my  throat.  I  felt  him  shaking  me  while  that  strangling  continued,  and 
breath  would  not  conic.     "Damn1  that  cake!      Devil  take  it,  \  on  little  fool,  loeat 

i  and  with  no  water,"  ami  he  threw  disgustedly  the  remaining  hall  ol  his  too 

generOUB   Supply   out    of   the   ear   window.      Carrie    hid    hers    under   her  cape.      lie 

displayed  a  sort  •>(  unregenerate  wrath  instead  ol  sympathy. 

Politeness  does  not  carrj   •>  person  far  when  human  nature  gets  stirred  up, 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


and  that  scene  just  experienced  rankled,  as  still  weak  from  my  monstrous  glut  of 
Sponge  cake  contrition  overcame  me,  and  I  stammered  out  slowly,  "I  couldn't 
help  choking,  Uncle  Horace — that's  the  silly  kind  I  am — don't  mind  now  please, 
I'm  all  right,"  and  there  were  actually  tears  of  mortified  pride  in  my  eyes,  real 
tears  that  time,  not  the  choking  kind  that  had  poured  out  a  few  minutes  before. 

I  still  shuddered  a  little  in  anticipation  of  a  dreadful  unbecoming  seizure, 
which  one  lamentably  witnesses  or  feels,  when  wrenches  in  the  lower  regions  make 
existence  a  horror  to  all  beholders,  as  well  as  fiendish  to  its  victim. 

Sharp  exclamations  again  broke  from  him,  "Damn'  it"  I  heard  again,  she's 
going  to  be  sick,"  and  I  shrank  from  words  I  thought  belonged  to  the  unpardon- 
ably  wicked  who  swore. 

Staring  at  him  and  at  all  around  in  astonished  perturbation,  Carrie's  smiling 
calm  restored  me  to  more  normal  poise,  and  I  at  last  breathed  naturally,  but  with 
inarticulate  deprecating  murmurs  of  apology.  I  was  conscious  of  a  hostile  feeling, 
I  had  been  so  shocked  at  such,  to  me,  awful  swearing  and  looking  at  Carrie  for 
similar  fear  or  disapproval  of  his  profanity,  I  caught  her  covering  her  mouth  to 
control  laughter.  "That's  like  Father  when  he's  mad,  only  he  says  worse."  It 
was  the  first  oath  I  had  ever  heard — I  was  lost  in  amaze  that  anyone's  Father 
could  say  such  bad  words,  but  someway  I  was  reassured  by  her  amused  indifference 
which  seemed  to  most  comfortingly  reduce  my  horror  and  cover  distress.  It  became 
to  me  curiously  an  increasingly  sympathetic  companionship  in  evil!  I  welcomed 
carelessness  and  indifference,  and  when  after  a  few  minutes  she  whispered,  "I 
like  your  Uncle,  I  think  he's  handsome,"  and  he  later  looked  up  to  smile  on  us  as 
we  were  quietly  finishing  what  Carrie  had  kept  hidden  under  the  flap  of  her  coat, 
and  tossed  us  each  a  shining  half-dollar,  all  my  formless  and  foreign  uneasiness 
fled.  I  heard  him  say  "Do  learn  to  eat  with  moderation  children,"  but  the  atmos- 
phere had  again  become  friendly. 

"Don't  you  think  its  wicked  to  swear"  I  whispered  under  breath  to  Carrie— A 
little  spasm  of  amusement  lit  up  her  pretty  face — "Why  no,  when  anyone's  mad 
enough, — I  say  "Damn"'  softly  when  my  shoe-strings  get  in  knots,  I  hate  tying 
them  anyway, — I  don't  have  to  at  home — and  anyone  can  say  bad  words  in  a 
temper"  was  the  serene  reply. 

As  we  descended  from  the  cars,  a  man  wearing  a  dark  coat  with  big  brass 
buttons  and  a  cockade  on  his  hat  touched  it  with  two  fingers  and  without  a  word 
grabbed  Carrie's  awful  carpet-bag, — She  nodded  "Hello  Tom"  and  we  followed 
his  rapid  strides  to  the  street  outside.  There  was  a  fat  coachman  on  top  the 
waiting  carriage,  and  he  lifted  his  whip  to  his  hat;  nobody  spoke,  and  my  Uncle 
and  I  saw  her  whirled  off  in  the  big  carriage;  nobody  had  come  to  meet  her  and 
she  didn't  seem  to  mind,  Oh!  I  thought,  where  were  her  Father  and  Mother? 

My  kindly  disposed  Uncle,  to  make  amends  for  what  he  felt  had  been  undue 
impatience,  took  me  first  to  a  Hotel, — perhaps  the  old  Revere  House.  It  was  large 
and  impressive,  and  he  plied  me  with  "goodies",  ice  cream,  lots  of  fruit,  cakes  and 
candies.  A  sicker  child  than  I  became  on  reaching  my  Aunt's,  or  a  bigger  stomach- 
ache was  never  before  felt.  I  went  on  record  for  nausea  and  its  dire  results,  was 
put  to  bed  instanter,  and  treated  with  solicitous  tenderness.  Later  I  heard  Aunt 
Nan  say  to  her  husband  who  hovered  about  the  door, — "Horace  is  such  a  fool 
with  children — Its  well  he  never  had  any,  they'd  never  live  to  grow  up,  Eliza 
would  neglect  them,  and  he'd  never  know  better  than  to  stuff,  or  swear  at  them, 
just  as  he  felt." 

It  is  not  too  long  ago  for  me  to  remember  definitely  the  few  wonderful  things 
that  marked  that  first  vacation  spent  at  my  Aunt  Nancy's  in  Boston.  She  had 
married  for  the  second  time,  a  very  brilliant  lawyer,  and  they  had  a  charming 
little  home  just  out  of  the  City.  I  felt  no  freedom  there  to  do  exactly  as  I  liked. 
It  was  impressed  upon  my  mind  that  I  was  a  visitor  and  everyone  wished  to  make 
it  pleasant,  and  I  had  surprises,  and  was  amazed  at  much  I  saw  and  experienced. 

Carrie's  home  in  Roxbury,  where  by  special  invitation,  I  spent  two  days  and 
a  night,  was  quite  a  revelation.  The  large  grounds  gave  me  wild  flights  of  fancy. 
So  many  birds  and  trees  and  flowers,  and  fruit  in  Summer  they  told  me.  How  far 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


removed  it  was  from  the  business  of  lessons.  It  was  a  beautiful  home.  Something 
there  seemed  to  sing  in  the  trees  and  the  loveliness  all  about  served  only  to  make 
me  more  terribly  scornful  of  our  school.  But  I  asked  no  real  questions  of  the  young 
laughing  Mother,  so  pretty  and  graceful  and  gay,  who  appeared  to  think  children 
were  made  for  her  own  amusement  merely,  yet  my  soul  was  full  of  interrogations. 

They  were  as  a  family  so  widely  different  from  anything  I  had  ever  met  or 
seen  before.  The  children,  her  two  sisters  and  brother,  seemed  to  regard  each 
other  with  disfavor  frequently, — and  Carrie  once  whispered  to  me,  "You'd  better 
believe  I  am  not  going  back  to  Newburyport  after  next  year,  but  Georgianna 
will  have  to;  Good!  I'm  glad"  and  I  was  a  bit  bewildered, although  on  the  surface 
the  remarks  seemed  good-humoured  enough. 

Several  new  traits  in  the  characters  of  Mothers  were  revealed  to  me,  when 
Mrs.  Reed  would  call  us  to  her  room  and  asking  pertinent  questions,  in  evident 
enjoyment,  of  the  result  to  make  me  talk  fast  and  furious,  working  insidiously  on 
whatever  I  liked,  or  disliked  most,  and  with  peals  of  laughter  making  me  think 
myself  of  vast  consequence. 

I  used  ridiculous  phrases  in  trying  to  be  grand  enough  to  please  her,  and  it 
must  have  been  preposterous,  for  several  times  she  sent  Carrie  away,  the  first  time 
saying,  "I  want  to  have  Neanie  alone,  you  are  dull  and  she's  never  anything  but 
entertaining."  Her  little  daughter,  dismissed  so  ruthlessly,  flounced  out  of  the 
room  with  the  expression  of  a  martyr.  It  was  my  first  sight  of  indifferent  coldness 
on  the  part  of  the  Mother  and  naming  jealousy  on  the  part  of  the  daughter. 

Carrie  was  comparatively  sullen  to  me  during  the  rest  of  my  stay;  but  I  didn't 
care;  I  preened  myself  as  something  specially  precious  in  the  eyes  of  that 
woman,  only  then  in  the  late  twenties.  The  merry  gleam  in  those  pretty  eyes, 
and  the  open  flattery  of  her  words  made  me  each  time  only  more  resolutely  de- 
termined to  do  and  say  whatever  she  wanted.  It  was  a  strangely  glorious  triumph 
over  Carrie  to  be  for  an  hour  her  Mother's  favourite.  The  trenchant  emphasis 
of  that  experience,  because  of  my  obvious  enthusiasm  over  things  and  people, 
made  me  while  with  her,  and  under  such  supposed  admiration,  like  a  galvanized 
little  Mercury  flying  hither  and  yon  over  personal  subjects,  and  manoeuvering  in 
speech  for  a  better  seat  in  the  heaven  of  her  regard. 

In  my  inflated  vanity  she  suddenly  made  me  feel  a  great  dislike  to  others  who 
gave  me  what,  by  comparison,  seemed  only  a  grudging  appreciation.  Praise  was 
a  benevolent  germ,  and  its  effects  upon  me  even  after  all  those  pages  were  closed, 
made  for  much  quiet  elation  in  weeks  and  months  that  followed.  I  had  no  analy- 
tical knife  to  use,  and  no  symbols  to  save  me  by  showing  that  experience  in  its 
worthlessness.  I  had  been  too  fevered  with  delight,  and  was  too  ignorant  to 
measure  values,  not  to  fail  to  believe  that  I  had  fully  justified  myself.  It  was  a 
triumph,  for  which  I  had  waited  a  long  time,  and  it  only  added  new  meanings 
and  richness  to  facts  of  existence.  And  feelings,  that  I  only  began  very  slowly 
to  comprehend  years  and  years  after,  return  to  me  when  conscious  of  that  great 
romantic  longing  to  be  first;  interpreting  itself  to  more  mature  feelings  as  the 
ultimate  purpose,  the  dream  and  aspiration  which  is  the  "Open  Sesame"  of  every 
woman's  life. 

One  afternoon  my  Aunt  Nancy  found  me  happily  engaged  and  said  quickly — 
"Come  Neanie  put  up  that  book — Mrs.  Benedict  has  come  to  take  you  for  a  long 
drive."  "Oh!  No, — No — No,  Not  Aria,  I  cried — I  can't  see  her, — I  can't.  You 
know  I  look  like  her — Oh  no" — and  I  tried  not  to  cry  but  the  tears  were  forced 
out  of  a  huge  lump  in  my  throat,  and  I  made  a  display  of  overwhelming  grief 
while  my  enormously  puzzled  Aunt,  unaware  of  the  terrible  experience  that   name 

recalled,  distressed  and  annoyed  but  growingly  determined  argued  a  bit  hotly 
until  she  led  me  a  despairing  little  victim,  trembling  and  tearful  to  the  dreaded 

presi  tl 

All  the  time  confused  with  that  returned  mi8ery  and  fear  the  conflict  raged 
within  Oh!  if  I  could  hide  somen  here  If  I  could  get  away  I'm  a  visitor  I'm 
a  visitor.    Mother  said  I  must  do  whatever  they  asked  but  I'm  not  going  to  look 

at    her      I   won't   look      ami   I   hung  as  far  behind  as   1   dared. 


I 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


Just  inside  the  door,  listening  to  my  Aunt's  apologies — "She's  out  of  sorts — 
she's  had  a  fit  of  home-sickness  I  suppose" — I  heard  what  made  the  blood  race 
through  every  vein — "How  she  favours  Orrington"!  And  with  eyes  still  fixed 
on  the  ground  the  blessed  words  made  a  riot  of  joy  when  she  repeated  "I  was 
saying,  child,  how  very  much  you  look  like  your  Father.  I  hope  you  have  his 
beautiful  voice.  Do  you  like  music?"  I  gave  a  feeble  assent,  and  too  deeply 
interested  to  have  time  or  desire  for  more  tears  I  slowly  lifted  my  eyes  to  the  face 
quite  close  to  mine 

Why!  She  wasn't  so  awful  looking.  She  had  on  a  big  bonnet  with  a  big  blue 
bow  on  top  and  one  tied  under  her  chin,  and  a  curl  hung  each  side  her  face  tucked 
a  little  inside  that  fine  bonnet,  and  she  was  smiling.  "We'll  have  some  fine  Christ- 
mas music.  Get  your  things  on  quick."  And  soon  in  the  carriage  we  whirled  to 
the  Music  Hall, — a  sacred  place  where  I  listened  spell-bound  to  the  Oratorio  of 
The  Messiah — My  first  sight  of  the  High  Altar — My  first  introduction  into  the 
realm  of  glorious  sound — My  first  knowledge  of  the  Divine  language — My  first 
kneeling  at  that  Shrine  where  I  have  worshipped  and  swung  incense  ever  since. 

Bewildered,  with  inexpressible  delight  I  critically  and  secretly  regarded  my 
kind  entertainer,  and  when  I  made  my  thanks  in  a  state  of  open  excitement,  she 
smiled  and  said,  "I'll  have  to  plan  it  with  your  Aunt  and  take  you  to  the  theatre." 
She  was  no  longer  terrible — She  had  changed — She  was  a  kind  lady;  and  enormously 
difficult  as  it  was  for  my  tyrannous  imagination  I  disputed  with  my  first  impres- 
sions, and  all  suddenly  considered  her  as  a  sort  of  splendid  investment  to  know 
and  to  feel  as  a  part  of  our  family.  And  that  face  that  I  had  thought  of  such 
distinctive  ugliness  I  found  well  worth  reading,  with  its  hidden  writing  of  character 
that  must  have  been  plainly  visible  and  so  dear  to  those  who  loved  her. 

Someone  has  aptly  said,  "That  kindness  is  the  most  difficult  quality  to  manifest 
because  it  demands  the  essence  of  sympathy."  When  she  said  "You  are  a  delight- 
ful little  girl  to  take  out,  and  next  week  there  are  Play's  of  Shakespeare,  and 
we'll  go  to  hear  "The  Tempest"  and  "The  Mid  Summer  Night's  Dream," — to, 
show  you  that  there  are  real  Fairies.  "I  somehow  felt  her  to  be  genuinely  of  my  kind 
and  unequivocally  surrendered  my  dislike,  and  felt  tempted  to  resent  the  recoil 
which  at  the  outset  had  made  me  so  pathetically  wretched. 

And  after  that  introduction  to  the  Drama  that  opened  a  new  country,  those 
wonderful  sights  consecrated  forever  to  me  immensities  of  charm  and  sacrifice 
and  heroism.  When  Edwin  Booth,  making  his  debut  there,  bowed  to  the  ac- 
claim of  that  critical  Boston  audience,  I  was  whirled  into  a  wild  and  breathless 
world — a  child  in  love — in  love  with  Genius  and  Art. 

Oh!  those  symbols  of  infinity  and  spaciousness!  Oh!  the  violence  of  delight 
that  caught  my  breath — the  overwhelming  realization  of  the  weird  and  wonder- 
ful—the unutterable  joy  as  I  sat  forward  in  the  seat  with  clasped  hands  and 
fixed  eyes  and  throbbing  heart.  Some  racing,  twisting,  turning  feelings  that  could 
only  afterward  be  paralleled  when  with  a  strong  wrist  on  the  bridle  of  a  tearing 
thorough-bred,  I  have  rushed  through  forests  or  over  hills  in  the  very  heart  of 
the  Rockies. 

Booth  looked  like  a  streak  of  flame  when  he  raised  those  splendid  eyes  and 
sent  messages  that  I  could  catch,  but  not  understand.  Oh!  the  rollicking  answer 
in  me  to  the  happy  ending  for  the  lovers.  I  was  too  obviously  happy,  with  no 
words  to  express  what,  when  you  get  right  down  to  the  fundamentals,  all  young 
hearts  feel  at  the  first  revelation  of  romance. 

Strong  winds  blew  over  me,  something  stuck  in  my  eyes  and  on  hot  cheeks 
as  I  drew  up  close  to  Mrs.  Benedict,  and  kissed  her  gratefully  when  she  took 
her  leave  and  returned  me  to  every-day  life.  She  seemed  to  me,  and  yet  I  know 
not  how  to  express  it,  to  have  an  affectionate  understanding  of  sanctities,  human- 
ities, and  spiritualities.  She  had  talked  to  me  as  if  to  an  equal,  such  was  her 
sympathetic  understanding  of  a  child. 

No  realization  can  be  perfected  in  us  that  teaches  human  nature  unless  we 
have  the  gift  of  imagination,  and  among  influences  that  were  unconsciously  mould- 
ing me,  wherever  associations  moved  freely  and  uncontrolled,  was  the  quest  of 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


adventure.  And  whatever  has  since  linked  my  soul  with  the  soul  of  beauty  that 
Music  and  the  Drama  stirs  to  reverent  worship  is  in  eternal  remembrance  of  that 
spirit  of  divine  childhood  lived  amidst  what  most  energizes  and  urges. 

The  jumble  of  odds  and  ends  in  those  days,  the  treasures  and  promises  have 
sorted  themselves  out  so  that  memories  and  impressions  are  tacked  on  to  the 
right  people  and  places,  and  all  sorts  of  forgotten  notions  come  into  conscious- 
ness. To  my  mind,  then  in  a  world  of  uncertainties,  there  was  but  one  thing  to 
do,  to  grow  up  soon,  to  go  upon  the  stage,  and  to  play  plays  with  Edwin  Booth. 

I  had  no  suspicion  of  difficulties  or  unrealities  for  a  long  time,  everything  else 
but  that  mimic  life  which  tugged  at  my  heart  slipped  into  the  background.  It 
was  extraordinary  how  adventurous  and  exciting  life  suddenly  became.  The  twin 
arts,  Music  and  the  Drama,  made  for  a  new  surprising  life  of  freedom.  It  brought 
delicious  poignant  satisfaction  that  ran  through  the  days  like  magic.  It  was  no 
disturbing  phenomenon,  it  was  only  a  sum  of  addition.  It  seemed  quite  sane  and 
sensible  for  me  to  read  between  the  lines  of  all  literary  expression  thereafter,  in 
buoyant  optimism  and  expectation,  the  grandeur  of  life  on  the  Stage. 

THE     LITTLE     SOUTHERNER 

Bowdoinham,  Maine. 

In  the  warm  rays  of  the  setting  sun  the  past,  not  melting  away,  rises  ever 
more  clearly  before  me.  Nothing  of  my  early  life  seems  very  distant  or  indistinct, 
and  today  with  all  those  years  behind  me,  my  Lake,  stretching  from  infinite 
distance  with  the  sunshine  making  dazzling  glory,  sings  as  always  to  create  moods 
of  adventure  and  revive  the  old  dreams  that  used  to  make  me  so  poignantly  happy. 
Circumstances  and  temperament  combined  to  make  me  an  Optimist  in  the  grain. 
Mine  was  a  sort  of  insolent  joy  in  life  and  with  every  physical  care  and  comfort, 
the  colour  of  my  past  tinged  always  the  colour  of  my  future.  And  as  a  school- 
girl of  eleven  I  only  missed  for  a  time  the  vital  accents  of  happiness. 

The  family  gathered  at  the  old  Maine  homestead  that  Summer  as  usual.  My 
Grandfather  was  changed,  very  listless  and  very  tired — not  interested  as  before, 
and  I  was  warned  not  to  disturb  him.  His  mind  stored  with  knowledge  of  life 
and  men,  no  longer  acted  with  its  rapier  clearness;  he  was  very  hollow-eyed,  the 
lines  had  deepened  between  and  around  his  eyes,  there  were  dark  circles  under 
them,  and  in  them  no  longer  the  old  flashes  of  cynical  humour.  The  cheeks  fallen 
in  and  the  skin  like  old  ivory,  made  his  countenance  strange.  But  the  full  sig- 
nificance of  his  condition  did  not  dawn  upon  me,  only  the  undoubted  fact  that 
he  was  no  longer  interested  in  me  caused  at  first  a  sharp  pang.  He  looked  oddly 
short  and  shrunken  sitting  in  a  rolling  chair,  and  my  chief  memory  is  how  strange 
a  smile  curled  his  lips,  and  how  he  raised  one  hand,  the  other  limp  and  useless, 
and  someway  made  for  me  a  picture  of  splendid  isolation. 

One  day  I  crept  close,  and  he  frowned  just  a  little  as  I  asked  timidly —"Oh! 
dear  Grandfather,  are  you  very  sick?"  Then  he  looked  exactly  at  me  and  those 
dimmed  blue  eyes  told  their  story  all  too  plainly.  Life  no  longer  throbbed  in 
face  or  voice  and  that  twisted  smile  and  futile  effort  to  talk,  plainly  haunted  me 
for  long.  My  distress  ending  in  a  flood  of  tears  and  many  inquiries,  after  that  1 
was  kept  from  the  room  although  I  took  many  a  flying  look  at  his  closed  door, 
and  could  not  help  knowing  that  he  was  stricken  sorely.  My  beloved  but  broken 
Grandfather  with  a  face  carved  in  ivory, and  lips  still  smiling  that  strange  half 
smile!    It  was  a  picture  I  could  not  shake,  I  struggled  with  its  unreality;  but 

the  heavy  weight   of  loss  at   times  made  the  blood  seem  to  leave  my  heart. 

Hut  that  special  Summer  I  Fell  many  a  new  thrill  of  admiration  over  tin-  grace 
.mil  beauty  of  my  two  youngesl  Aunts,  whose  shining  dark  eyes  and  gloss]  hair 
nippi  '1  quickly  any  bud  of  vanity  ever  threatening  to  grow  in  me,  and  my  flagrant 
tendency  i"  hold  the  centre  of  the  stage  and  focus  attention  upon  myseli  was 
gone.  I  u.i  in  :■....,!  temper  with  things  around  me  ami  there  was  quickening 
appreciably  in  me  the  love  "i  intrinsic  beauty. 

Ami  one  thing  was  very  different  thai  vacation.    1  went  often  to  Grandfather 

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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


Lunt's,  especially  after  my  Aunt  Dolly  and  her  step-daughter  Lou  Burge  arrived 
for  a  long  deferred  visit.  I  never  lacked  skill  in  making  friendly  approaches  to 
girls  of  my  own  age  and  I  quickly  felt  her  sympathy  and  understanding. 

She  was  a  clever  little  girl  of  middle  height.  She  was  dark-haired,  with  velvet 
black  eyes,  her  hair  was  thick  and  vital  and  grew  prettily  round  her  slender  neck. 
She  had  no  freckles;  I  noticed  her  skin  was  smooth  and  dark,  her  features  straight 
and  clean,  and  face  and  eyes  were  alive  with  passionate  distinction.  She  moved 
slower  than  any  girl  I  had  ever  seen,  and  spoke  with  a  soft  drawl.  She  was  all 
fire  and  flame  even  as  a  child,  and  she  could  repel  with  pettish  words  and  gestures 
for  her  temper  was  not  equal  to  her  looks.  I  thought  her  very  graceful  and  felt 
the  fervent  quality  in  her — She  won  allegiance  with  an  effortless  ease  and  we 
became  friends  with  brave  assumption  on  each  side  of  self-dependence. 

Lou  would  tell  me  of  her  entire  liberty  at  the  Plantation,  and  I  accepted  every 
factor  of  that  picturesque  life  of  the  South  with  enthusiasm.  It  was  strange  to 
me  that  she  turned  against  bonds;  the  personal  will  in  her  always  rebelling  against 
the  claims  of  those  older;  nature  clamouring  for  entire  freedom. 

If  she  was  slow  and  drawled  her  words  often,  yet  at  times  she  talked  as  fast 
as  the  human  tongue  could  go,  and  I  was  lost  in  admiration  of  her  vocabulary. 
She  was  the  first  human  being  of  my  own  age  I'd  ever  met  difficult  to  match  or 
over-top.  She  told  me  her  Ancestors  were  Knights,  "Such  as  you  read  about 
you  know",  and  threw  up  her  little  chin  a  moment,  continuing — "When  they 
died  they  were  all  laid  in  rows  and  rows  of  great  Vaults,  and  they  had  swords 
and  armour  too — You  can  read  in  history  about  them,  and  how  they  wore  knee- 
breeches  and  walked  in  armour  and  carried  big  swords  and  were  splendidly  hand- 
some like  Princes."  Her  little  oval  face  was  flushed  and  she  looked  proud  enough 
to  assist  in  highest  functions  at  Westminster,  and  to  have  Manor  Houses  to  be- 
stow on  us  all!  Well!  however  useless  such  knowledge  she  disturbed  me  with  it — 
I  could  only  reply  that  my  Grandfather  said  we  were  direct  lineal  descendants 
from  the  ancient  Grays  of  England,  and  so  Lady  Jane  Grey  belonged  to  my  family 
and  I  supposed  Oliver  Cromwell  and  perhaps  Queen  Elizabeth,  for  anyway  they 
were — Grandfather  had  told  me — very  distinguished  people  of  the  name  of  Grey. 

She  looked  at  me  scornfully  "Lady  Jane  Grey  had  her  head  chopped  off  and  never 
had  any  children,  and  Queen  Elizabeth  wasn't  married  either."  I  looked  at  her 
resentfully,  and  I  certainly  didn't  chasten  myself  at  that  point  with  any  knowledge 
or  belief  as  to  how  the  mighty  Grays  had  fallen  to  our  first  American  Ancestor, 
whose  epitaph  on  the  tombstone  in  Old  Plymouth  graveyard  reads  simply — 
"Here  lies  ye  body  of  Edward  Gray,  Gentleman" — I  merely  continued  proudly 
boastful,  and  Lou  frowned  listening  to  my  further  statements.  She  had  entirely 
disassociated  self  consciousness  and  disbelief  from  her  features,  and  both  of  us 
recovering  equanimity,  merriment  and  satisfaction  ensued.  She  had  concluded 
me  a  worthy  playmate  wherever  our  family  Mansions  or  mythical  Estates  were 
situated!  We  were  both  plainly  mere  vessels  of  emotion,  and  phases  of  much 
earlier  childhood  lurked  in  our  speech  and  aspect. 

The  hours  were  like  bubbles  in  which  so  much  that  was  unreal  was  reflected. 
When  childhood's  hours  are  weighted  with  happinesses  that  have  no  true  names 
they  are  as  fragile  as  they  are  beautiful.  And  little  indeed  do  we  know  that  ugly 
or  ordinary  things  are  critical  crises,  and  if  beautiful  weeks  of  joy  are  to  be  sound 
in  their  effects  idealism  must  never  be  destroyed.  That  will  save  and  prove 
itself. 

We  talked  very  freely  together  and  I  told  her  all  sorts  of  little  intimate  things 
about  which  I  was  habitually  reticent,  for  frankness  itself  hides  when  it  dreads 
criticism  or  amused  comment,  and  often  after  I  had  ceased  talking  some  remark 
of  the  young  Aunts  or  one  of  the  elders  would  make  me  feel  I  was  nothing  but 
a  born  prattler.  One  thing  is  certain  those  gay  members  of  the  household,  or 
of  the  family,  never  tried  to  patch  up  things  with  the  younger  generation.  There 
were  never  quarrels  or  estrangements  in  our  immediate  circle,  but  the  younger 
ones  were  relatively  indifferent  or  critical,  and,  as  I  had  no  sister  and  neither 
Joe  nor  my  little  cousins  were  with  me  in  the  Gray  homestead,  I  gladly  adopted 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


this  little  Southerner  whose  voice  was  as  persistent  and  ready  as  my  own. 

I  felt  a  sort  of  shock  when  I  heard  hot  and  unexpected  declarations  of  dis- 
like to  any  members  of  her  own  family,  and  sometimes  she'd  say — "I've  made 
a  vow  I'll  never  never  when  I'm  grown  up  have  anything  to  do  with  So-and-So" — 
And  she'd  draw  back  as  if  trying  to  shake  off  a  grip,  as  if  nerves  were  shrinking, 
as  if  there  was  some  invincible  interior  recoil.  It  was  curiously  as  if  the  child 
were  struggling  to  free  herself — forcibly  facing  away  from  things  as  they  were — 
with  now  and  then  sensations  of  impotent  wrath,  and  yet  all  such  temporary 
revolt  was  easily  appeased — sometimes  gone  as  rapidly  as  it  had  come.  Lou 
had  no  looseness  about  her,  no  lack  of  firmness  and  she  could  strike  boldly  if  upset 
by  a  touch.  As  far  as  she  was  concerned  emotionally  there  was  an  instinctive 
certitude  in  her  responses,  in  the  swiftness  of  her  speech  and  in  the  changes  of 
her  mood. 

Lou  was  haughty  even  to  her  Step-mother  whose  every  impulse,  every  word 
was  tenderness.  My  Aunt  Dolly  had  a  subtly  expressive  countenance,  human 
kindness  could  hardly  speak  more  plainly  in  a  human  face;  her  keen  intelligence 
was  free  from  personal  preoccupation;  hers  was  a  warm  Christian  outlook  on  the 
whole  world.  There  was  something  arresting,  something  noble  in  both  my  Father's 
sisters.  And  my  Aunt  Dolly's  dark  brows  arching  on  a  white  forehead,  her  lux- 
uriant mass  of  wavy  grey  hair  coiled  back  on  a  head  so  like  Father's;  a  head  well 
carried  as  though  conscious  of  ancestry  and  tradition,  yet  in  character  she  was 
too  benignant  to  realize  or  count  upon  anything  so  extraneous.  She  was  wise 
and  humanly  beneficent — Sweetened  by  generosity  and  sympathy  she  took  upon 
her  own  shoulders  many  burdens  and  many  needs.  She  bore  her  responsibilities 
and  met  her  emergencies,  and  gave  comfort,  enjoyment  and  service  without  stint 
or  any  troublesome  reflections.  She  rejoiced  to  see  us  together  and  encouraged 
every  indication  of  intimacy. 

We  had  fallings  out  of  course,  both  so  positive  and  self  assured,  but  they  were 
like  the  filmiest  of  summer  clouds  floating  mistily  for  a  second,  and  melting  into 
the  blue  before  one  really  saw  or  felt  the  least  danger  of  dimming  the  sunshine  of 
unclouded  youth  and  gaiety.  Alas!  one  careless  remark  of  mine,  made  with  no 
foreboding  of  possible  disaster,  precipitated  trouble  prophetic  in  its  nature  and  its 
threat  of  ultimate  rupture. 

Many  of  Lou's  words  and  my  hot  replies  have  left  their  lasting  imprint — but 
even  when  words  have  apparently  left  no  impression  upon  the  memory  the  scenes 
of  that  period  of  my  life  cast  on  such  simple  lines,  the  fact  of  those  experiences, 
the  knowledge  of  the  people  and  familiarity  of  surroundings,  the  effects  of  time  and 
place  and  their  long  after  results,  all  unite  to  bring  back  easily,  and  to  make  real 
exactly  what  in  that  early  period  was  said  and  done. 

I  can  see  again  just  how  we  looked  and  spoke  because  in  the  nature  of  things, 
realizing  my  own  feelings  and  recalling  those  events,  the  whole  series  that  led  up 
to  climaxes  of  sensation  comes  back  forcibly — emotions  voice  themselves  naturally 
and  with  characteristic  spirit  and  expression.  It  is  then  that  with  a  surge  of 
recollection  and  feeling  the  words  themselves,  largely  as  they  were  spoken,  ac- 
curately as  they  told  their  story,  come  back  to  me. 

We  had  come  in  from  the  orchard  up  into  the  small  hall  bedroom  called  the 
library,  with  its  one  large  book-case,  a  table  and  two  or  three  chairs  on  one  of 
which  Lou  had  climbed,  and  stood  up  to  rummage  the  upper  shelf,  to  be  sure  noth- 
ing was  hidden  away  from  us.  Suddenly  my  eye  caught  the  title  of  that  shabby 
old  volume,  accounting  for  the  careless  question -- "  Did  you  know  Grandfather 
Lunl  called  Byron  a  bail  book?"  "Byron  was  a  man,  and  he  was  a  Lord  and  he's 
I   looking      I   saw   his  picture      It's  "  Byron's  Works",  don't   you   know  enough 

to    peak  it  right?—  Bui  Grandfather  never  read  it;  I  have,  and  it's  a  beautiful 
book."    Being  very  much  chagrined  over  the  nature  of  her  rebuke,  the  justness  of 

ii      criticism   appealing,    I    Was  Bilenced   for  a    moment    but    rallied   to  remark   sting- 

ingly     "Oh!  you  think  you're  verj   smart  and  know  more  than  anybody  else 

n   must    be  bad,   I   believe  ( Irandfat  her,  you  aren't    right   always."     "I    know 

bad  1 1. 1  and  i  know  the  very  wickedesi  one,  It's  "Unclt  Tom's  Cabin'*,    for  a 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


second  I  was  dumb  and  then  shouted  irritably,  "Why  Lou  Burge,  You  don't  know 
anything — That  book  is  nice — I  say  it  isn't  wicked — I  say  you're  crazy" — and 
with  no  deference  or  any  reserve  politeness  for  her  as  a  visitor  I  added  the  un- 
necessary slight — "And  I  guess  you  are  wicked  yourself." 

She  grew  more  excited.  She  was  clean  mad — carried  away  by  something  she 
had  heard  or  remembered — but  I  interrupted  raising  my  voice,  my  heart  beating 
proudly  and  with  some  sense  of  power — "I  tell  you  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  is  a 
fine  book, — You  never  read  it — Everybody  knows  its  fine."  Her  cry  nearly  rang 
through  the  house — "No,  I  wouldn't  read  it — My  Uncle  said  he  wouldn't  touch 
it  with  the  tongs — They  ought  to  make  a  bon-fire  as  tall  as  the  sky  to  burn  them 
all  up."  But  the  ordeal  of  battle  was  not  over,  for  she  added  scathingly  "Wicked 
yourself! — I  reckon  you-all  are  wicked — I  reckon  you-all  are  black  inside.  Yes! 
you-all  are  black  inside, — Worse  than  niggers, — Worse  than  pore  white  trash — I 
hate  you  Yankees — You-all  are  common."  And  my  shocked  silence  was  the  price 
of  her  triumph.  I  was  dazed,  humiliated,  bewildered — and  I  had  long  after  a 
picture  of  her  as  she  stood,  that  little  figure  drawn  to  its  full  height  pointing  at 
me  with  blazing  eyes  the  finger  of  scorn.  Those  flashing  eyes!  and  that  face  crimson 
with  the  hot  blood  of  her  race  was  photographed  upon  my  brain. 

"For  Shame!  Children,  How  can  you  quarrel  so?"  The  furious  tones  had 
resounded  through  the  house.  There  was  something  oddly  direct,  oddly  compelling 
in  the  level  steady  glance  of  my  Aunt  Dolly's  grave  unsmiling  eyes.  Always  self 
possessed,  always  gentle  and  sympathetic  there  was  now  as  she  stood  before  us  no 
sense  of  unfinished  youth  anywhere  about  her.  She  was  the  Judge,  the  experienced 
woman,  and  a  very  determined  and  decided  one. 

We  had  been  fighting  as  truly  as  if  we  had  used  weapons  of  steel  instead  of  sharp 
words.  And  we  were  not  willing  to  pick  up  what  we  had  lost.  It  was  still  rage 
in  both  hearts  with  no  desire  for  reconciliation.  I  slipped  by  and  got  myself 
blindly  into  the  hall,  as  she  addressed  her  step-daughter  in  reproof,  but  could  beat 
no  retreat.  "Don't  run  away — Come  here  Neanie — You  poor  child! — Lou,  How 
could  you,  dear? — Why  you  two  are  cousins,"  but  the  little  Southerner  could  not 
be  silenced.  "She  called  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  a  nice  book — She  said  we  were 
a  wicked  set — She  is  nothing  but  a  Yankee." — "There,  There!  not  another  word — 
Now  listen  both  of  you — You  don't  either  of  you  know  what  you  mean.  You 
Lou,  are  rude  and  ill-bred  to  call  names.  You're  a  visitor,  and  I'm  ashamed  that 
you  shouldn't  behave  better.  The  Northerners  are  just  the  same  as  Southerners. 
Some  are  very  fine — and  some  are  not  like  our  people.  You  don't  like  everybody 
down  there! — Neanie — You  see  that  book  isn't  true,  I  mean  it  says  lots  of  things 
that  aren't  true.  It  makes  you  believe  lots  of  things  that  aren't  true."  There 
was  neither  invective  nor  sarcasm  in  her  quiet  words  as  she  proceeded  to  tell  me 
how  they  took  care  of  all  their  slaves,  saw  they  had  clothes  and  plenty  to  eat, 
and  looked  after  every  one  of  them  when  they  were  sick,  and  that  they  all  had 
little  cabins  of  their  own  on  the  place.  And  I  never  forgot  the  emphasis  of  her 
closing  sentence — "It  takes  over  a  hundred  of  our  slaves  to  pick  the  cotton,  and 
if  you  could  only  hear  them  singing  while  they  work  or  when  they  sit  in  their  own 
cabins  sometimes,  you'd  know  they  were  happy  and  taken  good  care  of.  There 
are  cruel  and  wicked  people  everywhere  all  over  the  world,  but  down  South  we 
don't  any  of  us  know  such  terrible  ones  as  she  writes  about." 

My  Aunt  Dolly  in  her  benevolence  saw  only  her  own  and  her  neighbours 
Plantations.  She  had  experienced  only  the  Patriarchal  system,  and  kindness  to 
the  core  herself  she  could  not  conceive  of  injustice  or  tyranny.  It  only  illustrates 
that  truth  that  we  all  cut  the  diagram  of  human  nature  by  our  own  limitations. 
Curious  when  one  begins  to  think  of  a  subject  how  it  crops  up  at  most  unexpected 
times  and  in  most  unexpected  places.  I  verily  believe  looking  back  that  I  perceive 
objects  not  visible  to  those  of  us  who  always  depend  on  the  usual  senses — That  is 
— I  can  see  these  things  of  which  I  now  write  without  my  eyes;  but  certain  things 
are  very  curious  and  yet  are  all  capable  of  a  natural  explanation  in  coming  back 
to  me,  marching  again  into  my  field  of  vision  as  if  they  all  actually  stood  up  before 
the  camera  for  it  to  take  afresh  the  old-time  pictures.    There  are  faint  differences 

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of  course,  sometimes  a  sort  of  shadowiness,  sometimes  almost  a  lack  of  definition 
because  indistinct  and  so  far  off,  to  you  who  read — But  I  can  smile  at  my  feeblest 
efforts,  and  I  am  held  so  that  I  can  neither  turn  away  nor  forget. 

My  Aunt  talked  long  and  wisely.  She  drew  us  both  figuratively  as  well  as 
literally  into  her  arms,  and  we  were  both  finally  reduced  to  apparently  friendly 
relations,  but  were  neither  fully  thawed  nor  at  all  altered  in  our  mental  attitudes. 
Lou's  tones  of  scorn  echoed  and  re-echoed.  "I  hate  you  Yankees,  you-all  are 
common."  I  had  been  chilled,  dashed  down  from  my  high  perch,  and  the  humilia- 
tion of  that  encounter,  the  recoil  and  futile  dislike  it  engendered,  would  have  lasted 
long  and  killed  all  affection  but  for  the  skill  and  tact  with  which  we  were  handled. 
We  shook  hands  before  I  stole  away  but  neither  of  us  were  going  beaten  from  the 
field.  I  had  a  fancy  that  in  both  cases  our  strength  was  spent.  I  realized  long 
after  that  hour  of  revealment  that  we  had  reached  each  other  understandingly. 
Those  words  spoken  in  sharp  detached  particles  that  hurt  swept  so  much  aside — 
and  it  was  momentous  and  revealing — but  the  force  was  not  evil.  We  were  both 
true  to  our  standards.  We  were  only  riven  apart  by  a  blinding  stroke,  and  Aunt 
Dolly's  wise  and  tender  touch  connected  for  us  the  two  edges  of  conscious  thought. 
Aunt  Dolly  knew  the  signs — Knew  a  receptive  mind  from  an  inquiring  one,  and 
had  understood  the  peculiar  mental  excitement  in  each  of  us. 

As  I  ascended  the  steps  and  entered  the  larger  living-room  at  the  homestead 
I  so  shrank  from  its  recollection  that  I  tried  to  slip  through  unseen.  But  there 
was  Aunt  Beulah  Patten  talking  to  my  Grandmother,  and  the  loveliest  looking 
old  lady  ever  seen,  Aunt  Hannah  Gray,  who  had  just  come  from  Grandfather's 
room  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  Aunt  Beulah  was  always  smiling,  humorous 
and  kind,  and  now  she  called  out — "Don't  run  away — What's  the  matter?  You 
look  peaked" — and  out  it  came!  They  all  laughed  at  being  called  "Yankees", 
and  Sarah  Ann  Fulton  who  came  in  with  my  Aunt  Sarah  in  time  to  hear  the  tragic 
tale,  cried  out,  "Mercy  Sakes!  What  do  you  care?  They  don't  know  us  and  we 
don't  know  them,  and  don't  want  to  I  guess.  You'd  better  give  your  Grandfather 
Lunt's  the  go-by  for  a  while,  I  should  think  Dolly  Burge  ought  to  make  that  young 
one  she  brought  North  behave  better."  But  something  stirred  in  my  heart  to 
defend  her.  "I  said  just  as  bad  as  I  could,  and  I  wanted  to  make  her  mad" — and 
in  a  subtle  sense  not  comprehending  it  at  all  I  seemed  to  see  that  if  we  wanted  to 
keep  something  good  and  sweet  we  must  not  stop  loving  but  snatch  at  the  joy  of 
being  together.  The  thought  of  little  Lou  and  Aunt  Dolly  being  so  severely  blamed 
brought  about  in  me  a  complete  recovery  from  anger  or  aversion. 

Aunt  Beulah  invited  me  to  spend  the  next  day  with  her.  She  always  gave  me 
seed-cakes  and  awfully  thick  cream  over  the  blueberries  when  I  made  her  visits 
and  I  loved  to  go  there.  Her  daughter  Nannie  was  very  pretty  but  very  fat. 
She  drank  cream  they  said.  Everybody  laughed  and  had  a  good  time  at  Aunt 
Beulah's.  I  guess  there  were  no  shadows  or  clouds  hanging  over  the  home.  It  was 
a  lovely  farm  and  they  were  dear  and  lovely  people. 

On  the  second  day  after  that,  Aunt  Dolly  brought  her  little  stepdaughter  and 
came  to  the  Gray  house  to  spend  the  afternoon.  She  and  my  Aunts  were  great 
friends  having  grown  up  together  from  childhood.  Lou's  sparkle  had  DO  sobering 
touch  as  we  met  again.  She  was  a  born  charmer  and  something  had  completely 
tranquillized  her.  I  felt  the  summons  of  her  warm  and  impulsive  nature.  It 
answered  to  mine.  The  inner  doors  opened — Our  hearts  met-— We  forgot  differ- 
ences,— We  felt  the  call  of  an  acknowledged  kinship.  We  glowed  comfortably 
in  happy  sunshine  far  removed  from  angry  clouds  or  the  bl.uk  background  of  battle, 
for  years  after  t  hat  siimmcr  it  was  a  reign  of  peace  All !  God  that  it  could  not  have 
lasted  I      Why!   Why   should   enmities    burrow    in   and    burn    until    llie\     Hash    into 

destructive  flame?    It  was  a  supreme  chance  that  parted  us  for  ever. 

And  ROW  I  look  back  to  that  last  day  we  spent  together,  to  the  last   time  1  ever 
Iter  and    I  cannot    forbear  speaking  just   here  of  a  little  scene,  and  some  words 

thai  surprised  and  gave  me  a  thrill  of  pleasure  unqualified, as  all  praises  of  those 
dear  to  us  invariabl)  must.    Lou  said  to  me  what  seemed  at  first  a  funny  thing 

It    BOUnded   SI   if   il    came  out    of  a    book      "1    think    jroUl    Mother    is    statuesque." 


Pe     i 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


My  Mother  always  impressed  me  as  tall,  but  she  is  not  above  medium  height, 
only  with  a  figure  very  straight  and  slender  so  that  seeming  height  only  adds  to 
the  extreme  grace  and  dignity  of  her  carriage.  She  has  fair  hair  that  shows  a 
natural  wave  and  is  abundant,  and  large  eyes  of  hazel  or  grey;  dear  deep  eyes 
that  look  out  upon  the  world  always  serene  and  yet  with  a  touch  of  sadness  and 
something  indefinable.  All  that  I  felt,  as  I  looked  at  the  little  speaker,  but  I 
could  not  then  have  put  it  into  words.  All  I  said  was  to  quote  Grandfather — 
"They  say  Mother  was  beautiful." — "Well  she  is,  only  she's  very  pale  and  they  say 
she's  very  delicate,  but  she  makes  everybody  comfortable,  I  like  to  be  near  her  and 
I  like  to  look  at  her." 

Whatever  tests  or  trials  my  Mother  met  must  have  early  opened  her  eyes 
to  the  calls  and  claims  of  others — to  sorrows  and  disappointments  perhaps — 
most  certainly  to  the  exigencies  and  demands  of  life  we  face  daily.  As  I  grew 
older  my  sensations  were  sometimes  vivid  as  I  looked  and  noticed  the  lines  and 
shadows  on  that  delicate  countenance,  that  gave  a  touch  of  sadness  and  meaning 
that  young  faces  never  have.  It  is  the  great  in  spirit  who  have  no  affectations, 
know  no  jealousies,  acquire  a  sort  of  infinite  patience  or  gentle  tolerance  and  never 
know  fears  of  losing  place  or  position,  wherever  they  may  be,  or  with  whomever 
they  are  associating.  My  Mother  never  appraised  human  beings  by  possessions 
instead  of  personal  attributes.  She  was  very  fastidious  in  tastes  and  habits,  but 
she  never  showed  that  instinct  of  criticism  of  which  she  was  not  devoid,  where  it 
could  hurt  or  wound  anyone. 

All  this  returns  to  my  mind  in  such  vividness  and  strength  that,  almost  the 
actual  surroundings  are  here,  and  I  am  back  at  my  Grandfather  Lunts  once  more 
and  see  again  the  Little  Southerner's  bright  face,  and  realize  that  she  never  har- 
boured unkind  feelings  long  however  unexpected  or  ominous  her  outbreaks.  We 
two  flew  on  swift  wings  of  confidence  until  the  eternal  division  came.  There  is 
no  vagueness  and  no  imperfect  memory  of  that  companionship.  It  is  even  clearer 
and  less  incomprehensible  from  my  childhood's  point  of  view  than  what  so  often 
and  necessarily  hung  about  my  intercourse  with  grown  people. 

That  summer  gave  me  surpassing  views  of  beauty  and  peace,  a  sort  of  tran- 
quilness  grew  in  me  and,  but  for  my  Grandfather  Gray's  continued  illness  and  close 
confinement  to  the  closed  room,  the  joy  of  its  many  experiences  would  have  filled 
me  to  overflowing.  But  no  days  passed  wholly  without  thoughts  of  him  and 
memories  of  his  undeviating  kindness  never  lost  poignancy  or  strength.  It  was 
all  mysterious,  inexplicable,  deadly  that  I  could  no  longer  see  or  talk  to  him.  The 
Gray  homestead  had  lost  so  much  of  its  charm.  It  had  lost  its  stately  Head  that 
embodied  such  dignity  and  hospitality.  There  was  something  pain  burdened  in 
the  atmosphere.  And  invariably  I  rebelled  at  the  authoritativeness  that  shut 
me  out  from  vision  and  association  with  the  beloved  invalid.  I  was  always  regret- 
fully aware  of  the  fact  I  could  not  get  away  from  that  Grandfather  was  changed, 
that  he  no  longer  listened  to  what  was  said — and  that  no  one  must  trouble  to 
question  or  interrupt  the  train  of  thought  in  which  he  seemed  so  strangely,  so 
completely  wrapped  up.  He  had  never  been  unsympathetic.  He  had  never  before 
waved  me  aside — The  few  times  I  saw  him  he  looked  as  if  he  did  not  see  me — as 
if  I  did  not  exist,  and  I  knew  he  must  not  be  bothered,  but  did  not  know  enough 
to  understand  that  he  would  never  again  be  free  to  occupy  himself  as  of  yore,  or 
that  never  again  could  I  look  in  his  eyes,  hang  on  his  words  or  draw  spiritual  and 
intellectual  strength  from  his  store  of  knowledge  and  reservoir  of  experience, 
never  got  away  from  hope — because  I  had  never  known  its  failure  to  warm  the 
hearts,  and  bring  back  life  to  the  death-stricken. 

No  intimate  possessions  of  the  Past  have  lost  meaning  nor  have  any  been 
rudely  wrenched  away  from  me.  They  belong  now  as  they  did  then,  and  if  happiness 
in  age  is  sometimes  crossed  by  melancholy  recollection  I  quickly  shut  the  doors 
on  any  reproachful  emptiness  of  the  present. 

I  write  for  you — Oh!  Children  of  our  blood!  You  that  are  here — You  that 
will  come  after — And  I  am  still  touched  with  excitement  recounting  fancies  and 
feelings  that  flooded  everything  with  sunlight. 


Page  49 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


THE     SECOND     YEAR 

Nevvburyport,  Mass. 

Memories  as  I  write  seem  to  be  drawn  up  into  the  light  as  vivid  as  if  the  long 
line  of  years  between  had  been  only  a  "Watch  in  the  Night". 

One  day  Grandmother  beckoned  to  me,  led  me  into  the  unused  parlour  where 
I  delighted  to  curl  up  on  the  quaint  and  charming  old  sofas  and  where  I  used  to 
hide  because  I  could  read  without  interruption.  Grandmother  startled  and  sur- 
prised me.  She  began  to  talk  so  seriously  about  my  duties  to  try  to  save  my 
Mother  extra  cares — "You  see  Neanie,  they  have  the  new  house  to  settle  in  and 
a  great  many  new  responsibilities.  If  you  will  go  quietly  back  to  Newburyport 
for  another  year  you  can  have  all  your  vacations  here,  or  in  Boston  with  Aunt 
Nancy,  and  it  will  save  a  lot  of  trouble  to  know  you  are  at  a  good  school  and  well 
looked  after,  only  when  you  are  asked  what  you  wish  most  to  do,  remember  to 
be  unselfish,  and  to  say  "Yes"  when  the  proposition  to  return  is  made." 

Who  was  it  that  said,  "That  Love  was  so  warm  a  thing  and  Heroism  so  chilly 
in  its  loneliness?"  There  was  very  little  of  the  heroic  in  me  but  I  was  quick  to  feel, 
sympathetic  to  new  ideas  and  insatiably  interested  in  Life.  I  had  the  growing 
knack  of  sinking  into  my  surroundings,  tolerant  of  many  sides  and  views — But 
this  was  too  much — I  burst  into  tears.  I  had  found  shelter,  a  sense  of  comforting 
protection — And  to  lose  it  again? — But  I  was  quick  to  receive  impressions  and 
heard  in  grave  almost  displeased  tones — "I  thought  you  loved  your  Mother  too 
much  to  let  her  know  you  wouldn't  do  what  was  best" — And  I  struggled  for  the 
self-possession  my  Mother  always  demanded  in  her  children.  With  the  readiness 
of  the  supposed  delinquent  whose  conscience  was  stirred,  I  finally  declared  willing- 
ness to  do  whatever  Grandmother  would  advise. 

God  judges  by  our  intentions,  we  are  told,  by  those  astonishing  individuals 
who  appear  to  have  inside  information  on  the  subject,  and  I  accepted  Grand- 
mother's dictum  as  law  and  never  breathed  reluctance  again. 

By  and  by  one  can  put  labels  on  experience,  know  the  meaning  better  or  better 
how  to  decide  and  what  to  expect,  but  then  I  was  in  a  maze  of  bewilderment  and 
plausibility,  and  suddenly  but  unconsciously  rudderless,  incapable  of  any  decision 
and  with  no  other  choice  of  action — No  voice  in  the  matter — A  little  puppet  merely 
of  destiny  which  took  me  back  to  Newburyport. 

As  an  isolated  incident  it  was  all  very  trivial  but  it  was  symptomatic  of  the 
chronic  state  of  things  with  my  relatives,  who  thought  it  certain  for  me  to  be 
spoiled  and  selfish:  And  in  that  circle  and  atmosphere  I  was  conscious  of  something 
never  felt  before  and  I  could  not  mitigate  any  shadow  of  disapproval.  It  always 
seemed  inevitable — For  either  through  clumsiness,  or  honesty,  or  stubborncss,  or 
pride,  I  began,  even  at  the  homestead,  to  feel  never  long  out  of  trouble.  \\  hen 
Mother  was  away  I  found  myself  easily  put  in  the  wrong.  Perhaps  Grandfather's 
illness,  and  my  many  questions,  perhaps  as  no  longer  a  little  girl  I  was  irritating. 

And  memories  and  experiences  that  Summer  shut  me  into  a  lane  of  thought 
intimate  and  isolated. 

That  second  year  the  qualities  that  developed  and  the  influences  that  produced 
them  came  out  in  the  Journal,  nothing  strange  or  unexpected  marked  the  days 
that  slipped  into  weeks  and  months;  Fall,  Winter  and  Spring,  and  the  various 
entries  recount  little  for  the  first  term.  My  small  interests  may  seem  far  out  o\ 
reach  but  never  secret.  I  never  isolated  myself  from  the  Others  for  1  was  never 
COld  nor  inhospitable.  I  was  ready  to  share  what  I  had,  all  except  the  mastering 
visions   which    Faith    fed,   but    which    never  really    materialized.     The  glamour  of 

honourable  ancestors  threw  an  unconscious  light  around  me,  and  my  thoughts, 

my  motives,  my  every  expression  in  the  disturbing  change  back  to  rules  and  orders, 

in  to  lad,  all  the  distaste  and  fear,  and  native  cheerfulness  was  triumphant. 

I  wa>,  never  difficull  to  understand  for  there  were  no  mysteries  t0  bailie  the  ob- 
server, but  fed  so  long  on  hooks  of  adventure,  on  romances,  plays  and  poems, 
wild  yarns  and  Btrange  fancies,  all  Buch  avenues  of  escape  were  again  closed.  1 
shall  never  forgel  mj  overwhelming  joy  when  behind  some  heavj  coats  in  ■  closet 

I'nyr  SO 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


holding  our  Winter  wraps,  I  found  a  parcel  wrapped  tight  in  newspapers  and 
opening  discovered  to  my  gloating  eyes  two  novels  by  Julia  Kavanagh,  "Nathalie" 
and  "Adele",  respectively,  evidently  hidden  for  no  eyes  to  see  but  the  unknown 
offender  or  owner.  Exultantly  I  seized  them,  and  with  no  single  pang  of  conscience 
appropriated  for  the  time,  the  privilege  of  surreptitious  reading,  with  a  relish  no 
other  fiction  had  given.  Sharpened  by  my  long  denial  I  adored  my  chance  in 
the  night  hours  to  light  the  candle  after  the  others  slept,  and  live  with  those  fair 
heroines;  while  fascinated  I  wished  a  thousand  times  I  could  bear  such  enchanting 
names,  and  be  either  a  Nathalie  or  Adele,  or  both  merged  in  one!  To  learn  to  wear 
a  mask  on  occasions,  to  have  life  begin  to  develop  as  the  drama  of  realities  but  also 
as  the  drama  of  disguises  even  in  little  things — That  leads  to  the  devices  of  decep- 
tion and  should  be  feared  and  dreaded. 

But  mine  was  a  gay  optomistic  sort  of  conscience  that  worked  cheerily  and 
gave  me  no  trouble.  Of  course  it  had  few  questions  and  no  serious  disturbances 
to  deal  with,  the  former  were  answered  by  my  instilled  beliefs,  which  were  always 
in  marching  order  and  had  guided  me  nicely  enough  with  no  heavy  weights  of  doubt 
or  desire  to  sustain.  How  I  was  to  be  stirred  when  burdens  were  to  be  carried — 
Ah!  that  is  another  affair, — So  I  progressed  agreeably  distracted  by  the  simplest 
events  and  never  any  discomfort  to  myself. 

I  had  grown  used  to  precepts  and  rules  of  discipline  and  Stoddard's  Latin 
Grammer,  pushed  hard  against  the  world  of  dreams  that  no  longer  invaded  the 
waking  hours,  for  gradually  the  monotonous  days  conquered  the  free  hearted  days 
of  my  young  life.  But  no  real  concentration  of  power  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge 
ensued;  no  streams  of  information  filled  the  empty  spaces  where  fancy  used  to 
breed.  It  was  all  foolish  repetitions  to  me  of  Latin  Verbs  and  Parsing  exercises 
of  English  Grammer,  and  dry  Geography,  and  History  without  vitality,  and  those 
awful  lessons  in  mental  arithmetic,  and  Prayers — Prayers — Prayers  in  plenty, 
that  frequently  made  tempestuous  panic  in  me  for  all  sober  contemplation  or  sense 
of  sacredness  was  gone. 

It  became  now  a  sort  of  chilling  immensity  to  think  of  God,  Heaven  and  Hell — 
an  unreasoning  thought-stopping  state  that  blotted  out  the  sunlight  and  that 
created  unbearable  ideas  of  pitiless  and  inexorable  doom.  The  Deity  was  dressed 
up  it  always  seemed  as  a  sort  of  gigantic  crushing  Presence,  a  monstrous  Ruler  of 
the  Universe  that  by  degrees  would  fill  the  victims  of  his  Omniscience  with  a  frenzy 
of  fear.  That  hovering  danger  might  tower  over  us,  but  did  not  really  grasp  or 
grapple  long  with  me.  I  was  acquainted  with  a  very  human  God  on  a  great  white 
Throne,  very  old  and  very  benign,  most  vivid  when  most  incredible:  and  close 
beside  him,  where  streets  were  golden  and  harps  playing,  a  miraculous  Christ, 
Lover  of  Little  Children. 

As  to  the  Holy  Spirit,  which  I  was  taught  as  necessary  to  a  Triune  God,  He 
was  a  stranger,  very  shadowy  as  to  power  or  being,  but  the  names  of  the  Trinity 
were  familiar  and  tripped  easily  on  the  tongue.  Who  can  measure  the  amount 
of  elision  necessary  in  childhood  as  in  maturity  to  keep  in  strict  accordance  with 
the  Protestant  faith?  I  suppose  it  is  what  we  think  about,  and  do,  when  we  are 
little,  that  makes  all  the  difference  afterwards. 

The  friendly  candle-light  by  which  I  read,  when  at  last  alone  and  the  cousin 
who  shared  my  room  asleep,  flickered  only  a  little  while  at  a  time  as  I  perused  in 
passionate  joy  Miss  Kavanagh's  novels.  I  feared  discovery  and  the  sure  judg- 
ment that  would  be  pronounced,  but  my  pluck  continued  undeniable  and  the 
chronic  half-despairing  hunger  for  more  seemed  to  have  all  of  my  past  self  in  its 
composition.  Outlines  of  character  were  being  emphasized  and  soft  contours  of 
childhood  within  and  without  were  chiselled  away.  Certain  longings  find  their 
way  surely  by  some  mysterious  process  from  heart  to  brain;  and  the  mildest 
punishments  I  took  stoically,  yet  with  an  ever  growing  fear  of  calamity.  Hence 
the  unnoticed  impulse  to  become  quiet  and  self-centred.  Certain  disasters  make 
one  sensitive  and  secretive,  and  yet  kill  self-reproach. 

As  I  look  down  this  minute  from  the  little  old  Journal  in  my  hand  to  select 
entries  made  that  last  year,  truthful  records  and  characteristic;  I  smile  and  not 

Page  .,-/ 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


sadly  because  I  know  well  they  will  amuse  the  young  members  of  our  family  for 
whom  I  am  writing  at  special  request.  In  themselves  they  are  not  specially  inter- 
esting, having  such  common-place  incidents  and  no  adventures,  but  they  are  ac- 
curate accounts  of  a  child's  daily  life  and  feeling.  If  not  therefore  intrinsically 
entertaining,  as  experiences  they  came  hot  at  the  time  from  the  friction  or  monotony 
of  those  days.  It  is  sixty-eight  years  ago  and  I  shall  copy  without  one  altered  word 
as  I  make  these  excerpts. 
October  1855. 

I  have  decided  to  change  my  name.  I  have  just  been  re-reading  Mrs.  Stone's 
"Dred",  and  Nina  Gordon  was  her  creation  as  heroine.  Why  shouldn't  I  be  Nina 
instead  of  Neanie?  Mother  was  named  for  the  Roman  Empress  Cornelia  Augusta, 
and  so  they  called  me  Neanie  from  Babyhood.  Grandfather  told  me  all  about  it, 
and  that  my  Uncle  Horace  was  Horace  Augustus  Gray,  and  that  Aunt  Elizabeth 
was  named  for  Lady  Elizabeth  Lawrence,  Countess  of  Lancaster;  and  he  told  me 
about  Caesar's  wife  and  Caesar  the  Emperor  of  Rome,  only  my  Uncle  William 
Gray  was  named  for  William  Patten  his  Grandfather,  and  Aunt  Helen  for  Helen 
Marr,  but  I  forget  the  rest  but  it  is  no  matter.  I  want  my  name  Nina,  and  if  they 
laugh  I  don't  care,  and  I  am  going  to  sign  it  every  time  just  that. 
October  ig. 

It  has  been  a  beautiful  day — no  clouds — radiance  of  sunlight.  I  feel  light- 
hearted  since  Carrie  told  me  Miss  Davis  said  she  rejoiced  when  my  music  days 
came  because  I  had  such  good  lessons — And  when  I  tell  her  so  "her  eyes  sparkle 
and  she  looks  so  bright  and  pleased".  She  said  all  that,  and  now  it  is  so  seldom 
that  Miss  Davis  commends  anyone  that  I  feel  very  much  nattered.  I  began  to 
take  "The  Child  of  the  Regiment"  with  variations  today.  Oh!  I  love  Music — ■ 
Miss  Julia  who  has  returned  from  Boarding-school  plays  very  well,  and  I  was  stand- 
ing in  the  hall  listening  yesterday  while  she  played  for  Mr.  Leslie,  who  comes  so 
often  to  see  Miss  Mary,  and  Miss  Mary  came  to  the  door  and  called  me  in,  and 
said  without  asking  me,  "Now  Neanie  will  play  to  you".  I  did  not  answer,  I 
was  covered  with  confusion.  "You  would  like  to  give  us  pleasure  would  you  not, 
Neanie?  Mr.  Leslie  is  very  fond  of  music."  I  arose  and  played  the  "Bloomer 
Waltzes"  and  Mr.  Leslie  said  "That  was  a  grand  piece"  and  Miss  Julia  jumped  up 
and  asked  "Well?  Can't  you  play  another  or  aren't  you  ready?"  I  felt  queer  and 
hot,  and  marched  to  the  piano  stool  and  played  the  "Aurora Waltzes", and  Mr. 
Leslie  wanted  to  know  how  long  I  had  taken  lessons  and  I  heard  him  whisper  to 
Miss  Mary,  "A  bright  child",  and  they  all  went  off  to  hear  a  great  violinist  named 
Ole  Bull.  Oh  I  wish  I  was  grown  up  and  could  go  to  Concerts  too. 
November  2. 

I  have  not  written  here  for  a  good  while  because  there  was  nothing  to  say. 
I  am  tired  to  death  of  the  sameness  of  everything.  Oh!  how  I  long  for  some  excite- 
ment and  gaiety  such  as  I  have  read  of,  but  that  is  never  to  be  had  at  any  price 
here.  We  have  the  most  beautiful  sunsets  here  that  I  ever  saw.  Miss  Mary  calls 
them  Indian  Summer  Sunsets  and  she  told  us  last  evening  exactly  how  Thanks- 
giving came  about  and  I  will  relate  the  tale  as  nearly  in  her  words  as  possible. 

When  our  forefather's  had  been  at  Plymouth  some  time  they  did  not  have 
any  rain  and  everything  began  to  dry  up.  If  the  crops  were  ruined  they  would 
have  no  chance  for  life.  The  Indians  would  come  and  kill  a  lot  of  them  and  take 
the  rest  into  captivity  and  bitter  winter  would  shut  them  in  and  Famine  would 
stare  all  our  noble  Ancestors  in  the  face.  What  a  situation  for  our  Pilgrim  Fathers, 
for  the  lonely  exiles  who  came  over  to  be  free  to  worship  God.  In  great  distress 
but  greal  faith  they  appointed  a  day  to  assemble  together  ,  It  was  Very  warm  and 
very  bright  and  not  a  cloud  to  be  seen.  They  prayed  steadib  all  the  morning 
and  iu  the  afternoon  the)'  again  assembled  for  the  same  purpose.  My  Goodness! 
they  11111  1  have  been  tired!  on  their  knees  all  day.  Miss  M.irv  did  not  say  that 
bin  I  do.  She  told  us  that  at  last  while  they  were  all  on  their  knees  and  their 
head',  bowed  down  that  .1  cloud  c.iiiii'  up  110  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  and  it  grew 
.uid  v\iw  mil  il  ii  OOVered  the  whole  Heavens,  and  the  rain  began  fast  and  furious 
until    the    whole    earth    w.r.    be i  u  I  i  f  ullv    watered.      Kverv  t  hi  AS    w.is    relreshed    .ind 


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everybody  was  awfully  happy,  and  when  all  the  Graneries  were  filled,  being  tre- 
mendously happy,  they  called  a  big  meeting  to  thank  God  for  his  unbounded 
goodness.  And  ever  since  we  have  had  a  Thanksgiving  Day  and  get  Turkey  and 
Pies  and  good  things  to  eat  and  are  very  thankful. 

On  the  whole  I  think  she  told  it  very  well  and  she  ended  with  two  conundrums: 
What  is  Joan  of  Arc  made  of? 
She  is  Maid  of  Orleans. 
And 

Why  are  Stars  the  best  Astronomers? 

Because  they  have  studded  the  Heavens  for  centuries. 

I  guessed  that  last  one  pretty  quick,  and  was  praised  because  Miss  Mary  said 
it  was  not  as  easy  as  the  first  one. 
November  12. 

Friday  night  I  told  Mary  Waldron  to  be  sure  and  wake  me  Saturday  morning 
so  I  could  practice  a  whole  hour  before  breakfast.  Well!  I  was  sleeping  soundly, 
dreaming  pleasant  dreams  when  something  terribly  solid  pounced  on  me — A  violent 
shake  which  made  my  head  ache  and  sparks  fly  before  my  eyes — "Get  up — Come — 
Get  up  if  you  want  to  practice — It  is  high  time,  Neanie,  that  you  were  at  it."  I 
could  hardly  open  my  eyes,  sleep  was  overcoming  but  conquering  it  I  got  out  of 
bed,  lit  the  candle  and  someway  got  into  some  clothes  and  finishing  my  toilette, 
candle  in  hand,  I  crept  down  the  stairs.  Mercy!  how  dark  it  was  and  cold  as  ice. 
As  I  looked  at  the  big  clock  I  stood  stock-still  with  fright.  It  was  half-past  twelve 
and  gruesome  enough,  awful  still,  and  I  shivered  like  everything.  I  just  turned 
quick,  the  flame  flickered  and  the  light  blew  out,  and  I  almost  cried  out  just  like 
a  coward.  I  tell  you  I  flew  upstairs,  afraid  at  mid-night  and  I  could  not  tell  of 
what,  for  I  don't  really  believe  in  ghosts  but  I  wouldn't  want  to  see  one — but  I 
confess  I  did  not  enjoy  peregerinating  alone  at  that  dismal  hour. 

When  I  got  to  my  room  Mary  was  snoring  and  I  know  she  was  pretending. 
I  just  slipped  off  my  shoes  and  my  dress  and  put  on  my  night-gown  over  my  other 
clothes  and  crept  back  into  bed.  And  after  a  refreshing  sleep  I  was  shaken  hard 
again.  It  almost  hurt  me  and  I  don't  know  why  she  wanted  to  be  so  mean  as  to 
keep  it  up  so  long.  But  I  asked  her  to  be  sure  I  was  awake,  so  I  had  no  just  reason 
to  find  fault.  I  descended  those  old  stairs  again  and  it  was  twenty-five  minutes 
after  five.  It  wasn't  worthwhile  to  go  back,  I  had  to  wait  half  an  hour  as  six  is 
the  rising  time,  and  I  snooped  round  but  couldn't  find  any  books  except  the  New 
Testament  on  top  of  the  Family  Bible,  so  I  sat  down  in  a  corner  of  the  room  and 
in  the  interval  I  thought  what  a  beauteous  little  person  Margery  Brewster  was. 
She  sits  in  front  of  us  at  Church  and  I  love  her  looks,  but  I  have  read  "The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice"  lately  and  I  wish  little  Brewster  was  named  Portia,  she  looks 
just  as  pretty,  and  wise  enough  when  she  keeps  still,  but  I  don't  think  after  all 
she  could  ever  be  called  a  "Daniel  come  to  Judgment". 

It  was  about  this  time  in  the  second  year  that  I  began  to  feel  more  truly  drawn 
toward  and  interested  in  Mrs.  Spaulding's  daughters.  Miss  Mary  must  have  had 
great  tenderness  of  heart.  I  think  all  the  girls  loved  her,  and  those  who  speak 
to  the  heart  of  children  have  a  tenderness  and  warmth  of  nature  that  cannot  be 
mistaken  however  cool  the  surface.  I  often  thought  her  lovely  to  look  at.  She  was 
pale — rather  shadowy — a  delicate  thin  face  with  small  well  defined  features  and 
dark  rather  haunting  eyes.  She  was  always  quiet  and  at  times  aloof  as  if  living  in 
another  world;  yet  recalling  those  days  I  remember  we  appealed  to  Miss  Mary 
and  begged  her  offices  to  help  us  out  of  small  troubles.  Her  sympathy  for  us,  or 
rather  the  understanding  when  we  had  been  brought  to  judgment  for  various 
offences,  argued  something  very  sweet  and  generous.  Something  in  the  mind  and 
heart  of  that  young  Teacher  must  have  revealed  itself,  and  it  could  not  have  come 
from  my  imagination  because  certain  essential  personal  experiences  were  not 
lacking. 

That  system  of  education  which  forces  the  intellectual  at  the  expense  of  the 
ardent  and  engaging  qualities  of  youth  never  troubled  or  endangered  us  in  the 
Newburyport  School,  yet  I  know  for  those  days  we  were  carefully  taught  and  a 

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foundation  was  relatively  well  laid.  I  think  I  must  admit  that  it  was  in  effect 
more  lasting  in  its  benefit  and  more  conscientious  in  its  guidance  than  any  later 
curriculum  offered.  There  was  a  quality  of  precision  about  Miss  Mary's  teaching 
and  many  of  her  observations  sowed  seeds  that  later  might  flower.  Her  face  rises 
before  me  through  all  the  mists  of  years.  She  was  unusually  fastidious  I  think, 
always  refined  in  speech  and  manner.  She  had  a  cold  way  of  looking  at  people  and 
things,  but  it  seemed  to  melt  when  she  was  with  the  young  recruits  in  life  that  she 
taught.  One  felt  her  superiority  and  something  fine  in  her  made  the  grip  of  her 
personality  unforgettable. 

Miss  Mary  never  had  the  high  spirits  that  on  occasions  marked  her  sister 
Julia,  who  was  evidently  a  tremendous  favourite  in  outside  circles  as  well  as  in  her 
immediate  family.  Most  of  the  time  away  at  school  or  visiting  somewhere  her 
reappearance  always  stirred  us.  It  had  the  effect  of  novelty.  And  once  I  remember 
it  so  clearly — it  was  one  of  her  vacations — She  had  just  returned  and  like  a  little 
whirlwind  or  burst  of  sudden  sunlight  her  greeting  gave  us  all  a  sort  of  electric 
delight.  "Oh  you  little  darlings!  You  darling  little  flutter-budgets!  Oh  I'm  so 
glad  to  see  you!"  We  were  instantly  alive  to  her  cheer.  She  looked  so  flushed 
and  happy.  It  kindled  a  swift  response  and  warmed  us  to  admiration.  And  then 
she  laughed  and  talked  with  us  and  made  everything  a  joke  until  we  became  equally 
gay  and  pleased  and  very  proud  of  her  attentions.  She  was  so  bright  and  told 
such  a  funny  story  that  I  was  almost  helpless  with  laughter  and  wished  she'd  stay 
with  us  forever. 

Miss  Julia  had  shining  dark  eyes  that  matched  her  glossy  black  hair.  She  was 
of  distinct  brunette  type,  complexion  creamy  and  smooth,  lips  red  and  well  turned 
but  very  little  colour  otherwise  unless  she  became  excited,  and  then  it  came  and 
went,  but  never  stayed.  She  was  impulsive  I  think,  perhaps  a  little  imperious, 
possibly  a  bit  exacting,  but  she  could  cast  a  spell  whenever  she  chose. 

One  night  just  after  we  four  up  in  the  front  chamber  were  safely  between  the 
sheets  there  came  a  light  tap  upon  the  door.  Up  we  started  in  our  beds,  a  blinking 
quartette  and  speechless,  for  suddenly  a  fairy  all  in  white  danced  in  and  dazzled  us. 

There  Miss  Julia  stood  a  candle  in  hand,  which  she  first  carefully  placed  upon 
the  wash-stand,  and  then  pirouetted  round,  whirling  those  be-rufHed  skirts  while 
we  looked  on  too  astonished  to  speak.  She  called  out  gaily  still  ballooning  for 
our  benefit, — "Well  girls,  how  do  you  like  my  new  dress?  I'm  going  to  the  party." 
"You're  awfully  pretty",  I  answered,  still  bewildered  at  the  vision  in  that  small 
circle  of  wavering  light — for  she  looked  so  dainty  and  flower-like  in  her  billowing 
spreading  skirts,  that  might  have  been  mistaken  for  leaves  of  white  encircling 
some  blossom  of  Spring.  The  thin  material  of  India  muslin  or  tarleton  was  ruffled 
to  the  waist,  and  as  she  continued  to  turn  swiftly  this  way  and  that  she  seemed 
embedded  in  flowing  waves,  and  held  to  earth  only  by  a  broad  sash  of  flying  yellow 
ribbon  that  tied  her  tiny  waist  and  floated  like  wings  behind. 

Thus  she  looked  to  me  a  denizen  of  a  happier  world  and,  as  she  darted  out 
quickly  as  she  had  flashed  in,  the  words  called  back  brought  us  down  to  the  tacts 
of  time  and  place.  "Go  to  sleep  now  children; — Good-night  Good-night,  I'll 
tell  you  about  it  tomorrow."  But  sleep  was  not  for  us  until  \vc  had  talked  it  over 
with  eagerness,  talked  of  parties  and  line  dresses  and  discussed  the  glowing  picture 
in  that  new  one  just  displayed.  "It  was  nice  of  Miss  Julia  to  show  it  to  us,  1 
think,"  and  Mary  Waklron  who  always  assumed  knowledge  ol  everything 
ivered  carpingl)  "I  knew  all  about  it,  I  knew  she  was  going  to  the 
Brewsters'  party  I  knew  she  was  having  a  new  dress  I  heard  them  all  talking. 
I  don'i  think  Julia  awfull)   pretty.    Win  did  you  say  so,  Nfeanie?     h  will  make 

her   vainer   than   Bhe   is."      "Oh   shut    up,    Mary,   you   are  alwa\s   finding   fault",    I 
:ilv,   Kill    she  interrupted:  "Her   mother   thinks  she's  a   wonder  and   she  s 

If,  and  I  Buppose  she  expects  to  catch  a  beau."    And  1  burst  out,  "She 

has  Several  anyway.      (  n  ionise  she  has  all   the  beaux  she  wants      and  she  doesn't 

have  i"  hum  for  themjyou'd  better  keep  still     you'd  have  to  look  a  long  time 

befoi  ne.    You  aren'l  prett]  enough.    I  say  Julia  Spaulding  is  ten  times 

tiei  than  anyon<  else  in  this  house."    And  then  with  a  sudden  twinge  oi  loyalty, 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


"Except  Carrie  Reed" — and  determinedly  I  got  my  head  under  the  bed-clothes 
to  keep  from  hearing  her  angry  retorts, — daunted  by  her  first  words — "You're 
not  much  on  looks  yourself,  and  a  perfect  baby  anyway — so  stupid — you  never 
see  anything  going  on."  And  as  I  neither  heard  nor  spoke  a  word  of  defense  the 
tumult  subsided.     Silence  fell  but  sleep  was  still  afar  off. 

As  Miss  Julia  was  only  sixteen  and  that  her  first  large  party  my  assurance 
of  her  wealth  of  admirers  sounded  a  bit  premature,  but  I  had  felt  a  new  wave  of 
admiration  for  her,  and  a  fresh  wave  of  dislike  for  her  detractor,  and  I  lay  awake 
a  long  time  wondering  how  it  would  feel  to  be  all  dressed  up  like  that;  to  look  so 
pretty  and  to  have  plenty  of  Beaux!  Episodes  that  live  in  memory  easily  recon- 
struct themselves.  They  come  forth  from  the  invisible  where  memories  dwell  and 
hide. 

One  other  memorable  occasion  when  reproof  was  sharply  administered  to  my 
disagreeable  room-mate  probably  helped  on  her  enmity  of  which  I  was  unaware — 
knew  little  and  cared  less. 

It  was  study  hour  one  afternoon  when  Miss  Mary  came  in  arrayed  in  a  dress 
we  had  never  seen  before,  probably  fresh  from  the  dressmaker.  It  was  a  sort  of 
orange  or  salmon  coloured  cashmere  with  brown  leaves  stamped  in  figures  all 
over  it.  It  just  fitted  tight  her  trim  little  figure.  It  was  high-necked  and  had 
large  flowing  sleeves,  she  wore  a  wide  lace  collar  and  fluted  lace  under-sleeves. 
She  came  in  smiling,  and  said, — "Now  children,  here  I  am  just  to  find  out  how 
observing  you  can  be,  and  who  has  the  quickest  eyes.  Look  me  all  over  and  tell 
what  is  wrong  about  my  dress."  She  looked  so  slim  and  neat  I  couldn't  see  a 
single  defect.  We  were  all  staring,  but  it  hardly  took  a  second  for  Carrie  to  find 
out — "Why  it's  your  belt, — of  course,  it  doesn't  match."  It  was  a  narrow  belt 
ribbon  fastened  tight  round  that  miniature  waist,  of  a  steel  shade,  quite  grey 
instead  of  brown.  We  all  verified  the  criticism  with  characteristic  exclamations 
as  Miss  Mary  continued,  "Yes,  Carrie,  your  bright  eyes  caught  on  at  once.  The 
belt  should  be  the  exact  shade  of  the  leaves.  It's  very  much  off  colour,  and  de- 
cidedly wrong  of  the  dressmaker  to  make  such  a  mistake,  but  I've  sent  for  an- 
other. You  must  all  cultivate  powers  of  observation,  they  are  so  necessary  for  us — 
our  eyes  were  given  us  to  see,  and  to  really  see  we  have  to  think  and  look  close." 
Miss  Mary  symbolized  refinement  and  some  poetry,  anyway  to  me  things  of  the 
Spirit;  and  I  hated  to  have  it  all  cut  into  or  cut  off  by  sharp  biting  remarks. 

Mary  Waldron  always  arrogated  superiority  on  account  of  her  advanced  years 
I  supposed — She  had  passed  her  fifteenth  birthday  lately.  She  was  blind  to  true 
values  apparently  in  those  about  her,  and  she  regarded  those  of  our  ten  or  twelve 
years  as  too  inferior  to  have  their  opinions  worth  noticing.  Consequently  she  was 
given  to  snubbing  us.  Her  daily  consciousness  was  permeated  with  what  she 
represented  to  herself,  and  now  she  sniffed  with  more  than  usual  assumption, 
"I  don't  see  how  anybody  could  make  that  mistake.  I  saw  it  right  off  but  I  didn't 
want  to  burst  in."    "Didn't  you  hear  what  Miss  Mary  said?"  interpolated  Carrie. 

Mary's  following  remark  was  entirely  irrelevant.  "Mrs.  Spaulding  is  proud 
as  Lucifer  and  thinks  her  daughters  something  extra."  At  once  Carrie's  easy 
grace  and  sprightly  spontaneity  took  up  the  cudgels.  Hers  was  an  entire  lack  of 
self-restraint  when  irritated  by  any  open  injustice  of  attack,  or  by  any  crass 
rudeness  which  she  instinctively  recognized  and  resented,  and  self-confidence  was 
her  strong  point,  for  Carrie's  abilities  and  clever  retaliation  seemed  always  to 
answer  any  precise  test  as  now.  "You  probably  never  had  such  a  nice  dress  in 
your  whole  life,  Mary  Waldron";  and  I  topped  off  with  challenging  energy  and 
independence — "No,  of  course  she  hadn't,  and  she  couldn't  wear  such  a  dress 
anyway,  it  takes  a  real  lady,  and  nice  looking  at  that  to  wear  such  a  dress."  "I 
don't  call  it  very  nice  and  I  wouldn't  wear  one  like  it.  It  isn't  one  bit  stylish." 
"Oh!  Stylish!  Much  you  know  about  that,"  laughed  Carrie  in  open  scorn,  and, 
"You'd  look  a  fright  anyway". 

"You  nasty  little  Chits",  she  cried,  and  tore  for  the  door  which  she  banged  violently 
behind  her.  "We  got  her  that  time,  cross  old  thing!  Oh  Neanie!  Wouldn't 
she  look  awful  in  a  dress  like  Miss  Mary's?" 


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Some  ruling  characteristic  of  Carrie's  temperament  made  her  like  to  measure 
herself  with  perfect  glee  against  anyone  who  had  overstepped  bounds  of  propriety; 
and  whoever  disregarded  the  amenities  she  marked  down  for  attack.  Carrie  com- 
placently regarded  the  world  as  far  as  I  could  ever  find  out  as  divided  between 
two  classes,  the  well-bred  and  the  ill-bred.  She  never  herself  in  company,  or  in 
ordinary  interchanges,  was  rough,  crude  or  common  in  her  speech  or  behaviour. 
Her  judgment  never  seemed  in  suspension  in  matters  of  politeness.  She  made 
curious  distinctions  about  people  and  was  very  frank  in  expressions  and  criticisms. 
She  had  a  funny  little  suavity  wherever  she  wished  to  impress  favorably,  and  to 
strangers,  that  she  approved  or  admired,  she  showed  great  apparent  deference 
whatever  her  own  views  or  opinions.  She  rarely  thought  it  worth  while  to  offend 
or  affront,  or  even  to  differ  openly,  although  she  would  hold  just  the  same  to  her 
own  dislikes,  distastes  or  preferences  to  the  crack  of  doom  no  matter  who  she 
listened  to,  and  when  she  despised  anyone  she  could  be  terrible  as  an  "Army  with 
Banners".  The  amenities  were  very  familiar  and  usually  practiced  and  observed 
very  carefully  when  she  had  a  definite  purpose  in  view,  and  I  began  to  understand 
how  she  won  approval  so  easily,  and  how  when  necessary  she  so  cunningly  worked 
for  it. 

And  now  to  return  to  the  Journal  in  which  I  wrote  my  most  private  opinions, 
and  all  the  dealings  of  Providence  as  we  were  being  taught  to  put  everything 
upon  those  Divine  shoulders. 
November  20. 

Yesterday  I  wanted  to  cry  but  I  wouldn't;  I  just  hated  those  nasty  disgusting 
sums  I  couldn't  do,  and  I  had  to  stay  in  a  whole  hour  and  all  the  time  I  could  see 
them  playing  in  the  yard  through  the  windows.  I  found  out  three  sums  and  then 
I  heard  a  noise — Sh — Sh — Sh,  it  was  Carrie.  Don't  speak.  Don't  make  a  noise. 
Come  on,  I'll  show  you  something.  She  had  her  Flat  off.  It  was  hanging  on  her 
arm,  the  ribbons  dragging  on  the  floor  and  she  was  all  red  in  the  face  and  laughing. 

Those  big  low-crowned  Leghorn  hats  banded  with  ribbon  had  hanging  in  front 
the  narrow  streamer  called  "bridle"  to  hold  down  the  wide  flapping  brim  to  shut 
or  hide  the  face.  They  were  called  Flats  and  our  new  ones  we  thought  especially 
fine. 

I  threw  down  my  books  and  we  just  hurried  tip-toe  up  the  back  stairs  to  the 
front  hall  and  leaned  way  over  the  banisters.  The  parlour  door  was  open  just  a 
little  bit  and  they  were  talking  down  there.  I  just  drew  back.  "They  won't 
hear.  Don't  be  such  a  scare  crow.  I  tell  you  Mr.  Leslie's  in  there  with  the  Spauld- 
ings,  and  they're  all  eating  Mrs.  Bowker's  grapes."  I  said,  "What?",  because  I 
didn't  know  Sarah  had  a  box  from  her  mother.  Carrie  said,  "Perhaps  we'll  get 
some  for  supper  if  there's  any  left.  Sarah's  mother  sends  Mrs.  Spaulding  something 
every  time,  and  I  bet  Miss  Mary  is  engaged  to  be  married,"  and  then  I  was  excited. 

"Did  she  tell  you?"  and  I  punched  Carrie  hard  for  she  was  leaning  way  over 
so  far  and  laughing  to  herself.  "No,"  she  answered  me,  "but  don't  you  know  a 
gentleman  can't  call  on  a  lady  ten  times  and  not  ask  her  to  marry  him,  and  conic 
and  sec  her  in  the  day  time  too — "  I  told  her  she  didn't  know  what  she  was  talking 
about;  that  lots  of  gentlemen  called  on  my  Aunt  Helen  more  than  ten  times  and 
didn't  ask  her  to  marry  them  and  she  said  how  did  I  know  and  that  1  liked  to 
contradict.  Carrie  was  cross  and  then  we  went  back  to  her  room  and  she  whispered, 
"Anyway,  I'll  get  apples  out  of  Sarah  for  us,  1  know  there  are  plenty  in  her  box 
only  they're  down  in  Mrs.  Spaulding's  closet — They're  Sarah's  anyway,  but  she's 
a  'fraicl  cat  she  hasn't  got  any  spunk;  she's  so  little  she  makes  me  think  ol  a  mouse. 
Then  Carrie  called  her,  "Come  on  now;  let's  go  down  and  get  something  out  of 
your  basket."  Sarah  was  frightened  but  Carrie  got  her  to  go  and  they  picked  out 
three  red  apples,  and  we  sat  on  the  bed  and  ale  them  and  then  we  had  to  eat  up 
the  ((.res  and  I  sort  of  choked.  Anyway  they  were  Sarah's  ami  Carrie  kepi  telling 
her  she  didn't  have  to  wait,  she  said  that  she  never  waited  when  she  had  a  box 
from  her  mother;  it  Was  hers  and  she  wanted  it  and  that  was  true  lor  once  sin- 
ran  righl  down  .iiid  said  that  is  mint-  just  as  they  were  taking  it  in.  ^l  es  and  1 
heard   her. 

Pagi  $(> 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


December  2. 

Just  lately  I  have  noticed  lots  of  things  and  I've  pondered,  and  I  think  I  under- 
stand better  why  Mrs.  Spaulding  so  greatly  prefers  Carrie  to  me.  _  Her  preeminence 
is  unchallenged  I  some  way  see  why.  Of  course  she's  Bostonian  and  I'm  from 
Chicago,  but  what's  the  difference?  I  heard  Miss  Gleason  the  music  teacher, 
laugh  once  about  Chicago, what  for  I  don't  know,  but  I  know  I  felt  mad.  Perhaps 
one  excellent  reason  for  preferring  Carrie  is  because  she's  pretty  and  doesn  t 
tear  and  soil  her  clothes,  but  that  little  pile  for  the  laundry  which  Mrs.  Spaulding 
points  out  to  me  with  praise,  and  then  looks  at  my  big  one  makes  me  laugh.  I 
know  what  a  lot  of  dirty  clothes  are  in  that  old  black  bag  to  carry  home,  and  I 
don't  see  it's  anything  amazing  to  admire  anyway.  If  she  really  did  have  such  a 
few  to  put  in  the  wash  I  wouldn't  imitate  Carrie  by  keeping  things  out  of  the 
wash  or  wearing  them  long  enough  to  save  the  school-washing. 

I  wish  my  eyes  were  brown  like  Carrie's;  then  they'd  be  the  color  of  my  hair 
and  I'd  be  much  better  looking.  Anyway  I'd  rather  look  the  way  I  do  than  like 
Mary  Waldron,  or  have  red  hair  and  a  lot  of  freckles  like  Susie.  The  world's 
full  of  homely  people  only  I  wish  I  wasn't  homely,  but  Grandfather  said  I  was 
well  enough  and  he  knows. 

December  15. 

Oh  dear,  how  I  hate  Sunday.  They  call  it  the  Holy  Sabbath  here.  We  rise 
at  six,  breakfast  is  ready  at  seven,  and  after  that  we  learn  the  Bible  Lesson  and 
recite  from  nine  until  ten;  then  it  is  time  to  put  on  our  things  and  start  for  church 
and  church  closes  at  twelve.  Dr.  Dimmick's  sermons  are  awful  with  fourthly, 
fifthly  and  sixthly  and  I  just  fidget  through  them.  How  a  man  as  old  as  he  can 
preach  so  long  I  can't  imagine.  Sometimes  sermons  are  delivered  by  Missionaries 
and  once  a  Doctor  from  Northern  India  spoke  very  feelingly,  that  was  the  day 
Margie  slipped  into  my  hand  a  little  piece  of  molasses  candy  done  up  in  brown 
paper.  She  smiled  and  whispered  when  our  teacher  wasn't  looking  that  she  and 
her  sister  made  it.  She  has  a  sweet  little  mouth  and  a  small  prettily  formed 
chin  and  she  has  got  beautiful  white  teeth  and  a  trim  little  figure  and  tiny  hands 
and  feet,  and  now  I  have  not  exaggerated  her  in  describing  her  beauteous  little 
person,  but  I  ought  to  speak  of  her  Grecian  nose,  and  forehead  middling  between 
high  and  low,  and  she's  neither  plump  nor  slim.  I  wanted  to  get  a  chance  to  kiss 
her  for  the  candy,  but  we  always  have  to  hurry  back  for  we  dine  at  half-past  twelve. 
I  just  feel  injured  because  that  second  sermon  begins  at  two  and  makes  us  go  twice 
to  Church.     It's  dreadful  but  it's  the  rule  and  we  can't  help  it. 

I  received  a  very  precious  letter  from  Mother  yesterday.  All  were  quite  well 
and  I  prayed  about  it  this  morning  for  which  I  am  very  thankful.  Mother  said 
she  had  an  exceptionally  good  cook  and  a  fine  chamber-maid  also,  and  two  black 
men  for  the  carriage,  and  I  congratulated  her,  and  told  her  I  was  as  far  as  the  Life 
of  Joseph  in  Latin.  And  I  also  told  her  that  last  Wednesday  afternoon  we  took  a 
long  walk  to  the  old  Burying-ground.  Among  the  graves  we  noticed  particularly 
were  those  of  some  Spanish  Refugees  who  fled  to  this  country  when  their  native 
place  was  in  a  state  of  confusion  and  trouble.  Their  inscriptions  were  written  in 
French.  The  Pocahontas  is  the  name  of  a  vessel  wrecked  off  Plomb.  There  were 
seven  of  the  sailors  found,  no  one  knew  them,  so  the  ladies  of  the  Bethel  Society 
erected  a  monument  to  their  memory. 

We  had  a  very  brilliant  sunset  and  got  a  sight  of  the  old  Elm  of  Newbury  which 
is  enormous,  and  when  we  went  back  I  spent  the  evening  hour  copying  a  long  poem 
entitled  "The  Old  Elm  of  Newbury"  and  also  "Bingen  on  the  Rhine",  and  some- 
thing Mrs.  Sigourney  wrote  which  begins, 

When  adverse  winds  and  waves  arise 

And  in  my  heart  despondent  sighs 

When  Life  her  throng  of  care  reveals 

And  weakness  o'er  my  spirit  steals 

Grateful  I  hear  the  kind  decree 

That  as  "My  day  my  strength  shall  be" — 

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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


When  with  sad  footsteps  memory  roves 
'Mid  smitten  joys  and  buried  loves 
When  sleep  my  tearful  pillow  flies 
And  dewy  morning  drinks  my  sighs 
Still  to  Thy  promise  Lord  I  flee 
That  "As  my  day  my  strength  shall  be" — 
I  think  it  is  very  fine  and  I  shall  commit  it  as  I  did  "Maidenhood"  last  week,  by 
Henry  W.  Longfellow.    My  Mother  lost  a  little  baby  once  and  I  read  "Lines  to  an 
Afflicted    Mother"    which    I  think  I'll  copy  and  send  to  Mother  some    day,    but 
"TheOldElm  of  Newbury"  is  pages  and  pages  long,  each  verse  has  twelve  lines,  and 
there  are  ten  verses,  but  I  think  I  shall  have  to  learn  them  when  I  have  time. 

Once  I  wrote  one  of  my  poems  which  I  entitled  "To  Our  Baby",  but  I  never 
sent  any  of  them  home,  because  my  Aunt  laughs  so  at  everything  I  write.  Mother 
never  does,  but  I  didn't  want  to  hurt  her  feelings  and  make  her  cry  in  remem- 
brance.    I'll  write  this  out  nicely  if  I  can. 

"Thou  hast  gone,  thou  hast  gone,  Sweet  Baby 
Thou  hast  passed  from  earth  away 
And  thy  spirit  now  is  dwelling 
Where  it  is  endless  day. 

Thou  art  happy,  thou  art  happy,  Sweet  Baby 

Where  never  sin  infests 

Thou  dwellest  with  thy  Saviour 

In  the  land  of  the  Blest." 
There  are  several  other  verses  and  one  begins,  "Thou  art  free  Thou  art  free,  Sweet 
Baby"  and  another  "Thou  art  loved  Thou  art  loved,  Sweet  Baby"  and  another — 
"We  hope  to  meet  thee,  we  hope  to  meet  thee,  Sweet  Baby",  but  I  haven't  time  to 
say  any  more  about  this  one  just  now.    There  are  three  different  poems  and  one 
prose  one  that  I  have  written  all  to  our  Baby — and  I've  told  about  his  gold  crown 
on  his  sinless  brow,  and  the  golden  harp  in  his  hand  before  his  Saviour  where  he 
stood,  and  how  he  bowed  in  meekness  and  praised  the  Lord,  and  how  we  hoped 
we'd  meet  him  because  he's  Jesus'  son  now.    Of  course  we  know  God  took  him — 
I  never  saw  him  much,  he  was  very  little  and  I  can't  remember  it,  but  I  think  I 
like  best  the  shortest  one  I've  written.    It  begins — 
"I  had  a  baby  brother  once 
Oh  where,  where  is  he  now? 
He's  with  the  angels  up  above 
And  low  to  God  doth  bow." 
I  suppose  mine  was  a  rather  distempered  volubility.     I  never  evidently  in 
thought  followed   my  own   ideas  or  fancies  to  any  logical  consequences.     The 
foundation  of  my  own  tastes  and  wishes  was  not  on  small  moral  or  religious  formulas 
however  readily  they  tripped  from  the  tongue.     I  did  not  allow  myself  to  be  con- 
demned into  any  straight  or  narrow  path.   I  did  not  seem  to  have  to  ask,  seek  or 
knock  for  spiritual  ideals — They  were  an  inheritance  or  supplied  with  my  earliest 
breath.     I  wanted  material  things— a  downpour  of  pleasures.     My  wishes  were 
like  a  hurricane  of  ideas  all  for  beauty  and  abundance  and  happiness  and  freedom — 
Things  mounted  so  readily  in  me  to  an  eager  expectancy  of  future  delights, splendid 
and  invisible— and  the  immense  probabilities  of  answer  to  prayer  for  returns  ol 
such  undisturbed  liberty  and  unalloyed  enjoyment  did  not  appeal.    The  Angels 
somehow,  never  reported  concerning  the  inner  treasuries  oi  amusement, enter- 
tainmenl  or  diversion.    So  the  problem  of  praying  for  what  I  particularly  wished 

had    very   little   light    thrown   on   it,  and   mv    efforts   Were   tO  rise  above   the   mono- 

tonous  surroundings,  for  m\   zest  of  life  was  spontaneous  and  communicative, 

always   infectious  in   its  own  enjoyment. 

It    would    he  difficull   just    here   tO   pa 88   B   judgment    on    m\    orthodoxy,   im    te- 
ponsei    I"   Warmth   and   affection   were  instant    and   unquestioned  and    I    think    m\ 

[onal  franlcm  often  amazing    certainlj  ai  firsi   I  was  absolutely  guile- 

«•■,',.      I    h.id   never  before  been  awaj    lioin   ni\    own   home  or  m\    own  near  kindred 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


and  my  first  mental  presentment  of  things,  foolish  according  to  the  Newburyport 
standard,  nevertheless  as  ideals  seemed  to  me  enchanting. 

As  memory  works  I  realize  more  and  more  keenly  the  many  illusions  of  that 
time,  those  impossible  dreams  of  that  early  childhood;  its  direct  simplicity  that 
knew  no  affectations;  the  ease  with  which  the  very  young  glide  from  the  concrete 
to  the  abstract  in  all  their  fancies,  and  the  utter  lack  of  appreciation  of  what  is 
being  done  for  them,  their  certainty  that  things  are  going  to  be  far  better  and 
never  worse,  the  indulgence  of  moods  and  growing  intellectual  intensity  and  desire 
for  sympathy,  as  well  as  the  distinct  growing  of  prejudice  and  antipathy — the 
real  axe  in  one,  striking  real  blows  in  disquieting  thoughts  about  people,  and  the 
developing  of  aversion  or  resolute  enmity. 

It  is  high-heartedness  that  wins.  It  is  high-heartedness  that  brings  sanity  and 
serenity  in  the  end.  And  if  in  years  to  come  one  loses  the  enchantment  of  life's 
morning,  those  dear  dreams  and  impossible  fancies,  since  life  cannot  be  all  light 
and  no  shadows  still  I  have  found  that  in  the  nights  there  are  whole  fleets  of  stars — 
that  if  one  can  only  look  up  one  can  shake  the  sense  of  revolt  in  proportion  as  he 
can  believe  in  essential  rightness,  and  continue  to  spread  wings  and  fly  high  in 
the  upper  air.  There  is  strength  in  those  pinions  if  there  is  still  joy  in  the  heart. 
Why  not?  Why  might  not  little  souls  be  fluttering  close?  And  why  may  we 
not  listen  to  catch  answers  out  of  the  silence  if  we  can  link  love  of  God  with  the 
smallest  of  his  creation,  from  the  very  leaves  of  grass  up  into  liberty,  up  into 
liberty  and  life? 

I  have  listened  in  still  nights  and  thought  I  felt  the  moving  outstretched 
wings,  and  heard  far  off  the  silvery  call  of  childhood  till  all  its  hours  and  hopes 
come  flashing  back.  And  even  in  age  I  can  look  out  smiling — even  now  over  a 
golden  Sea. 

THE    HAPPY    FAREWELL 

Newburyport,  Mass. 

My  Journal  for  the  rest  of  that  second  year,  had  an  amusing  tone  of  arrogance 
in  its  style  and  decidedly  stilted  utterance  for  a  twelve-year-old,  in  its  occasional 
lengthy  words  and  lofty  efforts  which  show  pretty  plainly  whither  I  tended  and 
the  quality  of  my  literary  tastes  at  that  age,  which  I  had  begun  to  think  so  mature 
in  point  of  judgment  and  choice  of  expression. 

About  that  time  my  Aunt  Elizabeth's  advent  and  my  consequent  change 
of  room  gave  me  an  opportunity  quickly  seized  to  furnish  the  three  or  four  girls 
older  than  myself,  who  came  upstairs  a  half-hour  later,  a  nightly  entertainment. 
I  used  the  interval  before  their  bed-time  for  Tableaux;  I  represented  all  sorts 
of  characters  in  astonishing  poses.  My  theatre  properties  were  meager  and  pos- 
sessions limited,  but  the  bed  quilt  was  used  to  great  advantage  and  the  pillows 
and  blankets  helped  to  form  background.  With  some  of  my  own  frocks,  and 
occasionally  daring  to  use  some  of  my  Aunt's,  I  managed  a  needed  variety.  There 
was  a  red  silk  shawl  of  hers  which  was  a  perpetual  God-send  to  drape  about  my 
small  person  in  wondrous  and  ever  varying  folds.  My  sole  piece  of  jewelry,  a 
good  sized  gold  locket  containing  daguerrotypes  of  Father  and  Mother  was  pre- 
cious beyond  words.  It  often  rested  upon  my  forehead,  the  chain  wound  about 
my  head,  or  low  upon  my  breast,  or  half  hidden  in  my  hair  as  the  case  might  de- 
mand! My  hair  was  a  valuable  asset,  I  had  learned  the  value  of  its  length;  curls 
had  been  changed  to  two  heavy  braids  and  when  I  let  it  flow  down  freely  the 
abundance  helped  out  greatly. 

I  represented  various  heroines  familiar  to  me  in  stories,  and  arrayed  myself 
for  startling  poses,  arms  akimbo  or  overhead,  legs  stretched  out  or  doubled  up, 
on  toes  or  knees  I  struck  into  position  as  I  heard  the  girls  coming  up.  Ours  being 
the  hall-bedroom  they  could  open  and  ever  so  softly  slip  in,  usually  in  gleeful 
anticipation.  Sometimes  it  was  "Ariel",  and  I  recited  in  soft  tones,  "All  Hail 
Great  Master,  Grave  Sir,  Hail!"  springing  about  the  bed  and  with  arms  extended 
dropping  upon  my  knees. 

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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


The  Christmas  holidays  of  the  year  before,  when  in  Boston,  I  had  been  taken 
to  the  Theatre  for  the  first  time  in  my  life — They  were  playing  "The  Tempest" 
at  the  Boston  Museum  and  Mrs.  John  Wood  was  Ariel.  I  was  enraptured,  I  made  that 
mimic  world  over  and  over  to  myself,  I  acted  the  part  and  learned  much  of  the  role. 

Sometimes  I  posed  as  an  Eastern  Princess  and,  as  I  had  read  they  were  very 
gorgeous,  my  one  piece  of  jewellery  was  always  in  broad  view,  sometimes  it  was 
Scherazade  herself  who  appeared;  but  there  magnificence  was  necessarily  cur- 
tailed! "Joan  of  Arc"  and  "Pocahontas"  were  favourite  characters,  but  I  lacked 
armour  for  the  one,  and  although  I  tried  once  to  ride  the  bed-post  for  a  horse, 
the  result  was  disastrous.  I  fell  off  and  the  girls  screamed,  and  but  for  that  pre- 
cipitate flight,  and  my  quick  hiding  of  properties  we  would  have  been  discovered 
and  that  chapter  finally  ended. 

Occasionally  the  pictures  were  original  as  to  creation  but  none  the  less  amusing 
to  my  appreciative  audience.  One  particular  night  while  I  was  struggling  fran- 
tically to  represent  a  Ballet-dancer,  such  as  I  had  seen  at  the  Boston  Museum, 
I  stood  on  one  foot,  leg  as  high  as  possible,  and  bent  my  body  to  and  fro,  gyra- 
tions so  violent  that  I  fell  with  a  thump.  We  had  been  speaking  as  usual  in  whis- 
pers, the  girls  often  choking  with  laughter,  as  with  unbroken  gravity  I  recited 
or  explained  what  I  was  trying  to  do.  The  unexpected  tumble  frightened  us  all 
and  they  fled,  dashed  into  their  own  quarters  as  I  heard  the  first  foot-fall.  Very 
quiet  the  little  offender  lay  as  one  of  the  teachers  opened  the  door,  looked  in, 
closed  it,  and  she  was  saved.  That  rapid  melting  away  of  my  audience  at  any 
suggestive  sound  sometimes  stopped  the  finest  climaxes.  My  Aunt  was  too 
young  and  sweet  not  to  be  amused,  and  as  long  as  I  let  her  treasures  alone,  made 
no  unpleasant  comments  or  threats. 

In  our  little  community,  as  I  have  indicated  before,  the  Sabbath  for  the  ortho- 
dox Presbyterian  of  those  days  had  an  indescribable  and  wearisome  rigidity. 
Man  was  made  for  the  Sabbath  evidently,  not  according  to  the  gentle  Saviour's 
words— "The  Sabbath  for  Man". 

From  the  old  latticed  book-case  regularly  every  Saturday  night  its  few  stories 
were  removed.  They  were  innocuous  enough  Heaven  knows,  "The  Swiss  Family 
Robinson",  "Harry  and  Lucy",  Miss  Edgworth's  "Tales",  Miss  Mitford's 
"Lives  of  Shakespeare's  Heroines",  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin",  and  I  think  "The 
Wide  Wide  World"  and  "Queechy"  may  have  been  in  the  collection.  Certainly 
all  were  harmless  enough  and  sufficiently  moral,  but  all  were  carefully  put  out  of 
sight  and  reach  until  Monday  morning.  Everything  was  ordered  and  orderly  and 
forever  the  same.  Poor  little  girls,  only  one  hour  of  the  afternoon  as  relief  to  tap 
the  window  panes, or  sit  still  in  our  rooms,  or  read  old  Sunday  school  books  before 
it  was  prayers  again,  and  the  round  of  verses,  hymns,  catechism  and  Bible. 

Perhaps  what  appeared  as '  Mrs.  Spaulding's  dread  of  amusements  simple 
enough  in  themselves, orof  many ornamentationsof  life  that  seemed  normal  to  us — 
special  accessories  that  she  sternly  banished,  may  have  belonged  to  her  particular 
form  of  religion  which  appeared  to  teach  a  sort  of  horror  of  what  appeals  or  reaches 
one  through  sense-channels.  It  was  as  I  afterwards  analyzed  probably  like  a 
protest  against  excesses;  as  she  realized  so  many  inequalities  and  injustices,  with 
the  fear  and  danger  of  dissipation  and  evil  actions;  they  all  combined  in  her  ex- 
pression and  desire  to  banish  temptation  but  with  no  unkind  disparagement. 

I  believe  really  her  words  were  salutary,  and  one  single  Bentence  lias  never 
failed  to  recur  again  and  again,  and  to  set  a  seal  upon  hast}-  inconsiderate  or  ir- 
ritated speech.  There  must  have  been  something  flaming  in  me  that  brought  it 
forth  "Remember  that  every  cross  word  you  speak,  once  spoken  can  never  be 
recalled.  Our  words  go  out  into  space  and  go  on  and  on  they  never  cease  because 
they  are  always  in  the  air.  What  yen  seiul  forth  in  anger  or  love  lives  forever. 
It  DIOVes  on  and  on,  round  ami  rouiul  the  world  and  never  stops."  That  picture 
dramatic.  It  appealed  tremendously  ami  comes  back  to  me  often.  It  has 
deterred  me  often  and  it  has  done  me  great  good.  I  have  never  forgotten  how  I 
■hivered  at  the  notion  of  my  carelessly  spoken  winds  resounding  forever  some- 
where  in   ipa<  e. 


Page  ''hi 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


I  remember  how  I  used  to  feel  sometimes  when  reproved  as  if  those  actual 
surroundings  were  a  sort  of  unpleasant  dream,  and  then  it  was  with  a  sort  of  shock, 
like  one  awakened  from  sleep  by  something  unexpected  that  I  found  myself  in 
that  School-Study  or  standing  before  Mrs.  Spaulding  in  her  private  office — never 
badly  treated,  but  trying  to  patch  up  or  to  explain  satisfactorily  some  trivial  de- 
linquency that  I  was  being  brought  to  book  for.  I  never  got  used  to  trouble  that 
I  easily  brought  on  myself,  and  I  never  thought  I  harboured  unkind  feelings  with- 
out cause.  I  could  not  understand  that  unperturbed  and  apparently  severe 
directness.  Discipline — it  seemed  all  discipline  to  me — and  probably  her  heart 
was  filled  with  chanting  and  prayer,  and  was  like  an  "Ancient  Church  in  which 
incense  was  forever  rising.  But  her  eyes  to  me,  glancing,  resting  and  passing  over 
me,  seemed  cold  almost  suffering,  often  surprised  and  never  amused  Her  pre- 
sumptive proposition  concerning  her  pupils  and  what  they  must  be,  meant  con- 
demnation of  what  they  were — and  her  gravity  always  struck  hard  on  youth  as 
severe  and  unsympathetic. 

It  was  as  if  she  showed  the  secret  of  her  being  only  to  the  distant  Almighty, 
to  the  unknown  Power  above— yet  she  was  a  true  Apostle  of  service — and  I  had 
at  first  looked  at  her  only  with  the  vague  deliberation  of  an  uninterested  child. 

It  was  abundantly  evident  that  second  year  that  I  read  a  little  further — but 
still  her  appraisal  of  human  values  was  all  strange  to  a  proud  gay  intolerant  little 
girl,  whose  inheritance  and  preceding  years  had  bound  her  to  something  tranquil, 
and  a  simple  indulgence  that  accounted  for  intractability  and  stubbornness  and 
blindness  to  Mrs.  Spaulding's  Sheaf  of  Gifts.  But  I  do  not  want  to  efface  from 
my  memory  that  there  was  less  and  less  hostility  whenever  I  lifted  my  eyes  to 
hers,  only  it  never  gave  me  a  bit  of  comfort  or  promise  to  hear  her  discuss  religion. 
I  feel  a  sense  of  pity  now  that  I  was  discordant  so  to  speak,  and  had  such  a  quiet, 
sullen  and  unsparing  vision  of  her.  She  was  like  a  dark  well,  a  well  into  which 
the  bright  Stars  of  gaiety  and  fun  fell  only  to  be  extinguished.  The  thought 
always  came  to  me  of  discomforts,  and  her  path  through  the  Sky  would  be  mine 
through  an  Abyss!  We  could  not  travel  them  together.  I,  who  would  have  been 
foolishly  expansive,  felt  too  often  set  down  as  unworthy  and  so  I  forever  guarded 
myself  away  from  her.  I  could  feel  myself  often  striking  out  blindly,  in  some 
sudden  whirl  of  feeling,  and  showing  the  resentment  of  a  child  rebuked — some- 
times reduced  to  tears. 

Things  so  weighed  on  me  when  with  Mrs.  Spaulding.  I  felt  apprehension 
that  if  I  moved  quickly  from  the  path  something  would  spring  out  or  fall  upon 
me.  And  so  my  whole  allegiance  was  confined  to  Miss  Mary,  and  my  appreciation 
and  interest  to  Miss  Julia  and  her  friends.  It  was  force,  fire,  charm  in  personality 
that  had  significance,  and  there  was  only  strong  appeal  to  me  when  I  felt  some 
beauty,  some  mildness,  some  affection  and  some  distinction — and  then  curiously 
I  lost  all  fear  or  dread  of  what  had  first  surprised  and  filled  me  with  apprehension. 

But  life  continued  indulgent  to  me  through  all  my  youth,  and  I  was  demanding 
its  best,  and  taking  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course  or  resenting  any  temporary  lack; 
not  realizing  in  childhood  or  even  far  later  years  its  high  value,  full  significance, 
and  wonderful  blessings.  I  had  never  known  responsibilities,  and  I  had  never 
faced  emergencies,  both  of  which  are  so  sadly  often  thrust  upon  the  little  ones  in 
our  midst.  Were  all  the  gifts  tossed  into  an  unappreciative  lap  because  I  had 
never  envisaged  disappointment  or  distress,  and  knew  so  little  of  denial  or  defeats? 
Because  I  had  always  felt  security  and  approval?  Was  I  then  in  danger  of  seeming 
always  to  myself  terribly  adequate,  assured  and  burdened  with  self  confidence 
and  self  assertion? 

Years  and  years  after,  and  very  strange  it  seemed  to  me  at  first,  Mrs  Spaulding, 
Julia  and  her  husband  and  children,  moved  from  far  Newburyport  to  Chicago 
and  made  their  home  in  Evanston  not  far  from  my  own  "Anchorfast".  And  in 
the  reunion  that  followed  I  began  to  realize  certain  admirable  qualities,  and  how 
the  stored  up  wisdom  of  a  long  life's  varied  experiences  or  sorrows,  deeper  thought 
and  higher  vision,  had  softened  all  expression  and  made  her  so  truly  gentle  and 
tolerant. 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


What  we  children  failed  to  detect  must  have  been  always  there,  but  well  hidden 
under  an  exterior  of  cold  distance  and  impenetrable  reserve  that  had  at  last  melted 
into  something  very  gracious  and  appealing.  The  brilliant  little  daughter  of 
that  house  who  became  and  remains  so  dear  to  me  must,  if  her  eyes  fall  upon  the 
crudely  painted  pictures  of  a  beloved  Grandmother,  wonder  and  wonder,  and 
feel  tempted  to  call  in  question  what  would  seem  to  her  child's  heart  an  exaggera- 
tion, or  an  injustice  amounting  to  cruelty. 

But  it  would  have  demanded  almost  a  divinely  inspired  imagination  to  turn 
the  lens  upon  a  reserved  high  born  and  haughty  Puritan,  and  not  reveal  shadows 
and  upside  down  realities.  It  was  cold  hard  facts  that  appealed  to  a  child,  and  to 
me  they  were  identical  with  the  actual  realities  as  revealed  in  my  experiences  and 
my  reflections.  I  naturally  disregarded  what  I  could  not  overlook,  but  I  do  not 
mean  to  imply  that  my  sensations  or  my  descriptions  were  counterfeits  ever — 
yet  reality  was  only  seen  through  the  lens  of  imagination,  and  my  power  of  making 
images  was  only  equalled  by  the  power  of  my  imagination.  To  me  in  those  days 
it  was  all  a  deep  and  close  association  of  cause  and  effect,  and  whatever  injustice 
is  apparent  to  the  partial  eyes  of  love  is  only  what  the  parabolic  point  of  view 
consisted  of — and  a  great  writer  says  that  words  parabolically  intended  admit 
no  liberal  inferences. 

I  have  an  absolute  conviction  now  based  on  a  clearer  understanding  that 
there  was  far  less  discord  and  separation  and  criticism  than  I  supposed,  but  there 
was  not  much  seeming  harmony  in  the  atmosphere,  and  very  little  beauty  felt, 
and  one  so  young  could  not  conceive  the  power  and  dominance  that  enabled 
Mrs.  Spaulding  to  lift  herself  so  above  the  source  and  centre  of  all  that  gave  joy 
to  me.  I  may  not  have  seen  her  truthfully,  of  course  I  mean  that  I  could  not 
in  any  wholeness  of  love  or  sympathy,  but  my  affirmations  in  all  these  pages  were 
built  upon  what  I  saw  and  know  I  felt.  In  that  sense  they  are  absolutely  accurate 
statements.  The  deep  inner  meanings  of  symmetry  or  perfection  in  a  condition 
of  continuous  prayer  never  to  the  childish  heart  seems  to  sound  any  large  har- 
monies, and  I  was  never  capable  at  that  time  of  conscious  objective  or  subjective 
analysis,  and  could  not  therefore  be  fair  in  such  early  estimates  of  the  mystery 
of  being  where  there  was  so  much  moral  and  spiritual  dynamite.  I  nourished  no 
illusions  by  perverse  or  fierce  generalizations.  It  was  my  own  inaptitude  that  did 
the  damage  to  my  protesting  self — and  I  regret  in  the  last  scene,  that  must  soon 
follow  and  close  my  relations  there,  that  I  cannot  modify  colours  or  effects.  There 
was  no  compassion  shown  me  and  I  was  shaken  with  threats  and  the  reverbera- 
tions of  my  ill  fortune  or  my  capacity  for  doing  damage.  And  in  running  away 
defiantly  that  afternoon  with  no  promise  of  care,  it  was  a  kind  of  instinctive  de- 
fence which  I  set  up  against  her. 

I  felt  no  sort  of  compunction  as  Carrie  and  I  walked  up  and  down  together. 
I  was  afraid,  and  seemed  on  the  edge  of  clouds  which  might  drop  away  into  a  sea 
below.  It  was  the  veiled  idea  of  "punishment"  which  disturbed  a  peace  ami  ob- 
sessed me  by  vague  conceptions  that  outlined  something  terrible  in  my  mind. 
So  although  we  talked  as  usual  I  brooded  absently,  anxious  and  afraid  of  the 
thoughts  taking  shape.  A  strange  helplessness  exasperated  me  beyond  reason, 
and  I  was  in  the  first  stage  of  a  violent  seizure  of  mental  activity  and  rebellion. 

To  look  back  a  little,  a  great  delight  had  come  to  me  in  March  on  my  Birt lnla\  . 
It  was  a  larger  box  than  usual.  It  was  a  very  stormy  morning,  March  winds  and 
March  storms  seemed  to  have  brought  winter  back,  that  was  a  dreary  nineteenth, 
y<-!  this  minute  renews  the  glow  with  which  my  trembling  little  lingers  shook 
out  that  little  blue  silk  dress,  with  rullles  on  the  skirt  and  a  blue  sash,  and  the 
card  attached  "To  my  darling  child  liom  Mother",  and  Father  had  put  in  a 
beautiful  picture  Ambroi_\  pes  they  were  called,  in  a  closed  case,  which  1  opened 
tO  ■•  that  Horace's  curls  had  been  cut  oil,  his  hair  brushed  back  and  wearing 
his  hr:, I  little  trOUBerS,  a  jacket  with  white  collars  and  cull's  and  a  black  ribbon 
tie,   and    there    \\,e.   .1    double    row    of   buttons   on    the   braided    Iron!    ol    the    jacket. 

I'm  little  ( [eorge  had  his  beautiful  golden  curls,  and  wore  a  new  plaided  coat  and 

trimmed   with   Velvetj   hr   had   a    little   tOJ    gun   in   his  hand   and   was  .seated   in 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


a  tall  fancy  chair  while  his  brother  stood  very  straight  beside  him.  The  copy 
of  that  precious  picture  hangs  on  my  walls  and  is  never  out  of  sight  in  my  room. 
The  pride  with  which  I  showed  those  Birthday  presents  has  only  been  equalled 
once  in  my  experience,  and  that  was  a  tremendous  surprise  and  ovation  on  my 
seventy-fifth  Anniversary,  but  I  cannot  make  that  leap  here  and  now.  And  now 
I  must  return  to  the  incident  I  deplore — 

As  a  transgressor  that  second  year  in  Newburyport  I  only  once  remember 
trembling  with  fear  such  as  I  have  described.  The  Saturday  half-holidays  gave 
us  the  afternoon  hours  undisturbed  if  we  were  quiet  in  the  house  or  playing  with- 
out undue  noise  in  the  yard.  My  Mother  was  fastidious  about  her  little  daughter's 
clothes.  And  that  afternoon  arrayed  in  a  fresh  white  muslin  frock,  ready  to 
dance  into  the  sunlight  of  temporary  freedom,  I  heard  Mrs.  Spaulding's  voice 
and  its  tone  conveyed  a  menace.  A  small  discomfited  little  girl  summoned  to 
the  Presence  stood  before  her,  and  heard  hard  words  that  fell  like  the  flail  of  a  whip. 

"Remember,  I  cannot  stand  such  carelessness  again — you  ruin  all  your  dresses 
— I  have  told  you  often  enough  how  to  behave  like  a  lady — Now,  and  today  if  you 
soil  that  new  dress  I  shall  punish  you  severely."  Oh!  the  hot  rebellion  in  me,  the 
sting  of  injustice,  the  recollection  of  my  own  persistent  ill-luck  in  too  swift  running, 
in  falling  down,  in  spotting  or  soiling  clothes,  in  utter  forgetfulness  of  all  but 
the  game,  and  this  awful  threat  of  "severe  punishment",  to  be  meted  out  for  an 
accidental  sin! 

To  do  Mrs.  Spaulding  justice  she  could  have  had  little  imagination  to  realize 
the  harshness  of  her  sentence  and  would  certainly  never  have  carried  it  to  any 
extreme.  She  was  not  unkind  at  bottom,  and  she  held  tender  recollections  of  us 
as  those  experiences  of  my  later  life  amply  proved,  but  at  that  moment  my  own 
rebellious  sensations  were  too  painfully  vivid  to  believe  I  would  ever  forget  or 
could  ever  forgive.  The  influence  that  produced  that  feeling  still  works  as  I 
re-live  it. 

On  that  June  afternoon  I  vowed  to  myself  to  watch  my  steps,  and  not  to  be 
responsible  by  flagrant  disregard  of  warning  for  any  disaster.  Very  gently  and 
gingerly  I  stepped  across  the  heavily  grass-grown  yard  to  its  side,  several  feet 
above  the  street,  as  the  house  stood  high  on  terraces  and  the  ground  sloped  and 
was  an  excellent  place  to  dance  or  tread  the  earth  in  merry  abandon  to  the  games 
that  made  us  forget  the  house  and  its  comparative  imprisonment. 

The  other  children  played  in  groups  while  Carrie  and  I  concocted  fresh  tales 
of  marvellous  adventure,  decidedly  more  individual  and  with  more  exalted  views 
of  our  own  experiences  than  even  those  of  our  own  "dream  children".  That  day 
I  remember  well.  It  is  down  in  my  Journal  that  we  chose  new  names,  her's  Georgi- 
ana  Wallace,  and  mine  Florence  Somerville — I  was  making  up  a  story,  which  I 
pretended  some  relatives  of  my  Mother's  who  lived  in  Newport  had  vouched  for, 
and  I  called  it  magnificently  "The  Bold  Buccaneers  and  the  Newport  Beauty". 
Just  as  I  neared  a  thrilling  climax  Carrie  burst  forth,  "Look  at  Mary  Waldron, 
what  do  you  suppose  she  is  hunting  in  the  tall  grass?"  "What  do  I  care?"  I 
answered,  too  impatient  to  look  round.  She  was  the  biggest  of  us  all,  we  had  liked 
her  that  term  less  and  less.  She  was  ungracious,  easily  put  out,  cross,  and  never 
seemed  to  play  games  fairly.  But  when  I  had  roomed  with  her  I  used  to  rub 
those  legs  faithfully  when  she  had  those  terrible  "cramps",  and  I  never  knew 
that  I  was  especially  disliked.  It  was  one  of  the  bewildering  things  of  life  that 
hurt  me.  I  never  understood  why  anyone  ensnared  another  by  meanness,  or 
told  lies,  as  she  had  to  me  the  first  year,  describing  the  boy  that  never  existed, 
talking  of  her  engagement  to  be  married,  and  swearing  me  to  secrecy  in  regard 
to  a  future  elopement.  When  I  found  there  wasn't  a  word  of  truth  in  it  all  I  avoided 
her,  very  easily  after  changing  my  night  quarters,  and  she  had  sometimes  lately 
given  me  a  sly  or  ugly  look  that  spoke  eloquently. 

At  that  moment  Carrie  again  called  out, — "Look  Neanie,  who's  that  coming 
up  the  walk?"  and  my  eyes  turned  to  see  a  gentleman  in  the  path  that  made  a 
straight  line  from  the  steps  on  the  street  to  the  steps  at  the  front  door,  for  the 
white  framed  house  stood  well  back  from  the  Elm-lined  street. 


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He  seemed  to  hesitate  as  we  watched,  he  looked  uncertainly  towards  the 
scattered  groups,  and  at  that  moment  Susie,  who  had  seen  him  the  year  before, 
called  out  excitedly — "Neanie,  Neanie,  isn't  that  your  Father?"  I  had  hardly 
time  to  answer  scornfully — "No,  No — My  Father  doesn't  wear  a  tall  white  hat," 
when  my  little  cousin  Joe  jumping  up  and  down,  screamed  eagerly,  "Oh  Neanie, 
Neanie,  it  is  your  Father,  it  is  your  Father.'''' 

Qne  cry,  one  bound,  and  I  dropped  to  the  ground,  sprang  up  to  drop  again, 
every  few  steps  stumbling  and  falling,  till  in  wild  disarray  and  unspeakable  joy 
I  fell  into  his  outstretched  arms.  I  clung,  I  cried,  the  joy  burst  into  sobs.  I  could 
not  understand  the  bliss  mingled  with  pain,  "Father!  Father!"  Oh!  the  feel  of 
those  arms,  the  kisses,  the  smiles, — I  was  with  my  own  again. 

It  did  not  occur  to  me  that  the  affection  lavished  on  me  emphasized  by  its 
long  lack  expressed  a  bitter  need  in  my  little  heart.  It  was  all  as  instinctive  as 
significant.  "What  is  the  matter  with  my  little  girl?  Father  thought  she  had 
lost  the  use  of  her  legs.  Why  you  almost  frightened  him  flopping  down  every 
few  steps.  Take  off  your  Flat  and  let  me  see  if  you  look  natural.  Your  Mother 
and  little  brothers  are  waiting  for  you  at  the  Hotel." 

Why  did  Mary  Waldron  knot  up  the  tall  grass?  Why  did  she  want  to  have 
merciless  condign  punishment  inflicted  on  me?  A  queer  pang  came  over  me 
as  I  looked  down  at  the  result  of  that  mad  rush  across  the  yard,  its  inevitable 
tripping  up  and  wrecked  destruction  of  my  dress.  "But  I'm  safe — I'm  safe",  I 
thought  in  exulting  certainty.  All  confusion  in  my  brain  settled  to  that  assurance, 
as  with  flushed  cheeks,  and  bright  eyes  after  the  tear  shower,  I  tore  ahead  of  my 
Father,  ran  gaily  up  the  steps  to  rap  loudly,  excitedly,  and  impertinently  upon 
the  Office  door.  "Mrs.  Spaulding — Mrs.  Spaulding" — between  each  knock, — "My 
Father's  come  and  I'm  green  all  over." — The  eloquent  insolence  of  that  announce- 
ment! No  longer  hopelessly  at  a  disadvantage,  with  no  fears  now  of  consequences, 
pride  and  temper  shattered  all  my  deference.  The  whole  year's  rebellion  boiled 
into  defiance  and  disrespect,  and  something  sweet  and  generous  crashed  in  me, 
until,  with  no  note  of  reproach  when  the  door  opened,  she  looked  at  my  dress 
stained  green  from  neck  to  hem,  and  measured  me  with  cool  grey  eyes  that  seemed 
to  administer  the  much-needed  reproof  I  had  courted. 

That  sharp  glint  in  those  eyes,  while  impervious  to  the  humour  of  the  situa- 
tion, yet  understood  and  appraised  me,  and  punished  with  a  look— although  she 
only  said  quietly,  "Never  mind  now  of  course,  go  upstairs  and  change  your  dress," 
as  she  advanced  with  old-time  courtesy  to  meet  my  Father.  Her  whole  calm 
manner  gave  me  a  swift  sensation  of  discomfort  akin  to  humiliation. 

At  bottom  I  was  no  less  ashamed  that  I  had  brought  it  on  myself.  Temper 
became  sometimes  quite  hot  within  me  because  of  hidden  intensity  of  sentiment. 
But  I  flung  up  my  head  in  sheer  desperation — hummed  a  tune  to  hide  any  sense 
of  shame  and  whispered  to  regain  the  shadow  of  my  victory.  "Anyway  she  is 
a  queer  woman,  and  I  think  her  features  very  unimposing." 

The  whole  family  have  laughed  uproariously  when  telling  the  tale,  and  adding, 
as  it  is  written  down  in  my  Journal,  "Well!  I  know  some  of  my  wishes  are  very 
irrational  but  they  are  very  "irresistible"  which  was  considered  one  of  my  odd  sen- 
tences and  repeated  as  proof  of  the  ridiculously  long  words  I  affected. 

I  have  always  wished  I  had  explained  how  it  befell  that  I  should  seem  so 
outrageously   disobedient    and    show    apparently    such    stubborness    in    missing   no 

chance  of  getting  into  trouble.  Bm  I  only  gazed  ruefully  at  the  sight  1  had  become 
and  then  meeting  my  Father's  smiles,  bearing  once  more  the  loving  voice,  all 

emotion  that  had  so  valiantly  Hand  up  died  down  in  relief  at  his  presence  and 
direct  ion.  "Don't  be  long  clear,  Mother  will  call  on  Mrs.  Spaulding  tomorrow 
and  pack  your  thing8;  we  arc-  going  tO  the  Motel  tonight,  and  home  as  soon  as  we 
can  gel  there."  Oh!  How  those  tones  Spoke,  stirring  my  heart  with  promise  as 
I    Sprang   upstairs  again   without    a   shiver,   to  dress  and   leave  jubilantly. 

A    I  descended  I  paused,  distinctly  hearing  mj  own  name  and  these  unexpected 

words      "The  child    ha:,   a    knack   of  accomplishing   a   good   deal   while   appareniK 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


doing  nothing  in  particular.     My  daughter  thinks  very  highly  of  her  mentality. 
She  makes  friends  with  everyone  and  has  a  sunny  nature." 

A  twinge  of  self  reproach  at  my  unorthodox  behaviour  and  late  impertinence 
deepened.  I  was  suddenly  in  a  regenerate  mood,  but  I  had  grown  increasingly 
reticent,  for  no  appeals  that  I  had  ever  made  had  ever  disturbed  that  stern  monitor 
of  discipline,  and  at  that  moment  no  mood  of  expansion  loosened  my  tongue. 
She  must  have  thought  that  this  time  also  I  had  slipped  willingly  out  of  the  straight 
path,  and  I  could  not  wait  for  repentence  to  find  expression. 

I  feared  to  linger  lest  I  become  again  a  sort  of  butt  for  just  displeasure  and 
just  severity.  I  have  often  felt  vaguely  in  later  years  that  I  must  have  misunder- 
stood that  Puritan  of  the  Puritans,  but  then  the  sense  of  home  and  escape  struck 
deeper  than  ever,  everything  else  was  undervalued  against  the  mighty  current  of 
joy.  It  was  an  overwhelming  tide.  Gloom  was  wholly  dispersed,  and  from  that 
time  on  the  Sun  definitely  had  the  best  of  it. 

That  last  experience  however  when  I  only  said  carelessly  but  audibly,  "Good- 
bye, Mrs.  Spaulding",  I  was  mystified  exceedingly  by  the  pressure  of  her  hand 
and  those  overheard  words  of  praise,  the  first  that  I  had  ever  received. 

"Didn't  you  like  them  there,  are  you  so  happy  to  get  away?"  queried  my 
Father,  unaccustomed  to  any  lack  of  politeness  or  ignoring  of  the  amenities. 
"'Oh  bless  the  Lord' — Oh  Father  I  just  want  to  say  it — that  Psalm  I  learned 
last  Sunday.     'Bless  the  Lord,  Oh  my  soul,  and  forget  not  all  His  benefits.'  " 

My  Father  with  an  unforgettable  look  bent  and  kissed  me. 
The  chapter  in  Newburyport  was  ended. 


Page  65 


Book     II 


The  Little  Brothers. 


George 


Horace 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


BOOK     II 


THE    ONWARD    STEPS 

Chicago,  111. 

Oh!  the  light-hearted  exuberance,  the  delights  of  that  journey  home,  close 
again  to  my  handsome  devoted  Father,  my  beautiful  delicate  Mother  that  with 
all  the  strength  of  my  girlish  heart  absence  had  taught  me  to  adore.  Time  now 
to  get  acquainted  with  my  two  little  brothers  after  two  years  separation,  and  under 
parental  smiles  to  amuse  and  be  amused.  The  softening  influences  of  normal 
and  natural  surroundings  opened  swiftly  my  closed  heart,  and  made  me  conscious 
of  secret  unexpected  and  unexpressed  regret  that  I  had  not  been  more  worthy  of 
high  esteem  at  the  school,  which  in  my  secret  heart  I  knew  I  had  made  farewell  to 
while  under  a  cloud. 

It  startled  me,  gave  me  a  slight  recoil  therefore,  to  learn  that  a  place  had  been 
secured  at  the  Abbot  School,  near  Farmington,  Maine,  for  the  oldest  son  of  our 
house  who  would  then  be  only  nine.  The  very  word  "Boarding-school",  made 
me  shrink,  and  I  pitied  my  little  brother  Horace  who  was  to  meet  that  experience 
after  one  more  year.  Fortunately  for  the  pupils  at  "Little  Blue",  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Abbot  were  skilled  teachers;  hers  was  a  Mother's  hand  at  the  helm.  Horace  had 
three  wonderful  years  there  without  handicaps  and  Mrs.  Abbot  is  remembered 
by  all  the  pupils  as  watchful  and  kind.  She  was  a  victim  to  her  own  unselfishness 
for  after  my  two  brothers  left — (George  was  later  put  at  the  same  school) — she 
sacrificed  her  own  life  nursing  one  of  the  boys.  The  child  recovered  but  the  lovely 
woman  succumbed  and  her  place  was  never  filled. 

On  arrival  in  Chicago  excitement  knew  no  bounds  as  we  drove  up  to  the  new 
home,  way  up  town  between  Adams  and  Jackson  Streets,  to  171  Michigan  Avenue. 
As  I  sprang  from  the  carriage  and  raced  up  the  step  after  my  smiling  Mother  I 
was  the  gladdest,  merriest  girl  on  earth,  and  later  when  she  piloted  me  from  room 
to  room  joy  and  pride  seemed  immeasurable.  They  were  the  first  stone  houses 
in  Chicago,  "Honor  built",  and  considered  quite  exceptional.  People  used  to 
pause  and  inspect  them  and  they  were  often  pointed  out  as  noteworthy  to  strangers. 

Occupied  by  the  Gilmans,  Newhalls,  Lunts  and  Suydams,  the  two  centre 
houses  had  long  balconies  on  each  of  the  three  stories  above  the  basement;  the 
balustrades  were  of  wrought  iron  and  they  were  a  delightful  novelty  in  Porches, 
commanding  fine  views  up  and  down  the  Avenue,  and  way  out  to  the  horizon  where 
the  intense  blue  of  the  sky  was  reflected  in  the  intense  blue  of  the  Lake. 

When  I  found  the  large  upper  room  opening  on  to  the  long  narrow  enclosure 
was  mine,  my  very  own,  I  was  thrilled  and  in  one  ecstatic  moment  forgot  every- 
thing that  had  passed.  I  had  never  seen  such  luxury  of  appointment  or  such 
spacious  comfort.  My  Mother  had  natural  taste  and  my  Father  had  rejoiced  to 
gratify  every  wish. 

How  clearly  visualized  is  every  room  and  passage  and  piece  of  furniture  in 
that  dear  new  home — ours  until  the  Great  Fire  laid  it  in  ruins  and  destroyed  all 
those  choice  possessions. — The  wide  hall  ending  in  that  attractive  Library,  the 
very  Busts  above  the  Bookcases,  the  Secretary  and  large  Library  table  of  old 
oak,  and  the  revolving  chairs  upholstered  in  dark  green  leather  to  match  the  tone 
of  carpets  and  curtains!  The  Reception  and  Living  room  to  the  right  as  one 
entered  was  all  in  warm  red;  Axminister  carpets  and  brocaded  curtains,  lounge 
and  easy  chairs  and  the  bright  blaze  of  the  fire  on  the  hearth  made  us  welcome. 

But  the  special  gift  waiting  for  me,  the  beautiful  piano  in  its  carved  Rosewood 
case,  gave  me  a  rapture  that  thrills  me  at  this  moment.    "Oh  Father!"  I  gasped, 

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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


and  his  answer,  "We  are  glad  to  have  our  little  daughter  home  again",  settled 
upon  me  like  a  benediction. 

More  than  all  else  was  the  impressive  awe  of  that  Drawing-room.  It  occupied 
the  whole  front  of  the  second  story  and  its  size  warranted  the  heavy  crystal  chan- 
deliers, the  double  fire-places  and  the  great  gold  framed  mirrors  above  them  at 
either  end;  the  heavily  embroidered  curtains  at  the  four  tall  windows,  the  carved 
Rosewood  tables  and  chairs,  two  full  sets.  And  oh!  that  Aubusson  carpet,  I  feel 
this  moment  its  deep  pile  and  see  the  white  ground  and  distinct  pattern  of  roses 
and  green  leaves,  the  flowers  all  wrought  in  colours  to  make  the  room  wondrous 
fine  to  my  astonished  gaze. 

But  what  intrigued  me  most,  what  I  liked  best  in  our  new  house — palatial 
until  the  long  Terrace-Row  in  the  block  above  was  built,  to  overshadow  all  that 
preceded  it — was  our  broad  circular  stair-way,  the  low  wide  steps  of  which  wound 
up  three  stories,  and  the  sky-light  of  coloured  glass  just  above  and  under  the  roof 
seemed  to  me  the  very  acme  of  splendour. 

Everything  is  relative,  and  soon  I  who  had  seen-only  candles  and  oil  lamps 
before,  became  accustomed  even  to  the  tall-light  upheld  by  a  bronze  figure  on  the 
heavy  Newel-post,  and  the  gas  everywhere  shaded  and  made  effective.  It  did  not 
take  long  to  become  used  to  those  dear  surroundings.  I  had  never  thought  much 
of  or  depended  upon  externals,  for  occupation  and  an  interested  heart  like  a  busy 
mind  forgets  unessentials.  Perhaps  I  learned  without  knowing,  certainly  without 
power  to  analyze,  that  if  one  dared  enough  in  dreams  and  the  dreams  were  only 
noble  enough,  slowly  outwardly  and  in  time  actually  one  might  almost  become  alive 
to  the  image. 

Youth  should  not  loiter — Play  while  you  have  youth!  That  was  my  creed.  I 
suppose  I  needed  emotional  excitement — I  always  wanted  to  feel  that  I  was  living. 
Instinctively  I  sought  companionship,  amusement  as  all  human  creatures  do. 
To  some  it  is  given  as  to  me  in  full  measure — to  others  forbidden.  Why?  Who 
knows?  Mine  was  a  normal  yet  privileged  childhood,  and  at  first  after  my  return 
to  Chicago  it  was  all  like  an  incomparable  mosaic— the  making  acquaintance 
in  our  new  neighbourhood,  where  our  diversions  were  so  quiet  as  to  be  amusing 
in  the  blare  of  today. 

We  had  for  the  more  youthful  the  jumping  ropes  with  gay  painted  handles 
which  those  skilled  like  my  cousins,  the  little  Lunts,  could  throw  in  great  curves 
and  jump  unceasingly  to  the  rhythm  of  those  swift  circles!  We  had  the  great 
steel  wire-hoop,  with  its  Q  shaped  handle  to  hook  and  hold  in  place  that  rolling 
circle,  as  the  driver  sped  merrily  alongside  guiding  it  safely  and  rapidly  around 
the  corners.  We  had  Grace-Hoops  for  inside  play.  They  were  so  prettily  wound 
in  blue  and  red  velvet  and  gilt  and  the  Grace-Sticks  had  the  same  colours  and 
floating  ribbons.  And  we  threw  from  a  selected  distance  to  each  other  in  turn 
tossing  the  hoop  back  and  forth  to  our  partners  extended  sticks.  Some  of  the 
girls  had  great  skill  and  grace  in  throw  and  catch,  and  it  gave  me  a  sort  of  altruistic 
delight  at  the  marvellous  play  they  sometimes  made.  I  made  no  secret  of  my 
admiration  for  skill  and  success  in  the  sports  and  games  our  times  afforded,  and 
I  pleased  the  clever  ones  whose  company  1  invariably  sought.  The  more  difficult 
exercise  of  "Battledore  and  Shuttlecock"  I  grew  to  excel  in — and  the  mildly 
dissipating  games  of  Dominoes,  Checkers,  Backgammon  were  no  severe  test — 
but  when  my  Father  began  to  teach  me  Chess  1  found  myself  obliged  tO  work  and 
was  so  to  speak,  often  up  against  it. 

Soon   I   found  myself  the  rent  re  of  a  little  neighbourhood  group,  a  sort  of  Man- 

agei  of  entertainments  for  which  my  Newburyport  experiences  in  amusing  the 

SI  holars  there  had  amplj    prepared  me.     Here  as  there  the  demand  was  for  novelty 

in  amusements,  to  presem  which  certainly  exercised  no  great  powers.    We  were 

a    very   simple  set    of  children.     There  were  the   Ncwhall   Sisters   next    doov,  one  a 

jreai  old<  i  and  one  younger  than  myself,  :\ud  pretty  little  Emma  Gilman  a  house 
removed;  and  others  who  could  be  summoned  for  occasions. 

\l,  cousin  foe  Evans  was  often  with  me  for  days  together.  They  had  moved 
to  the  little  hamlei  ol  Evanston  named  for  her  Father,  twelve  or  fourteen  miles 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


away  in  the  thick  groves  by  the  Lake.  It  was  only  a  very  insignificant  inferior 
sort  of  village.  I  thought  I'd  hate  to  live  there,  but  there  were  a  few  nice  houses, 
and  the  Evans  had  a  great  big  square  for  grounds  and  a  lot  of  Lake  shore,  and 
had  built  a  cottage  that  was  brown-painted  and  had  little  gables  and  wandered 
over  a  good  deal  of  ground.  It  looked  pretty  so  near  the  Lake  and  all  surrounded 
by  tall  beautiful  trees.  It  was  nice  to  go  up  there — it  took  a  long  time  to  drive 
from  our  house  but  there  was  a  train  that  went  between  Chicago  and  Evanston 
once  a  day  each  way,  only  it  was  an  awfully  long  way  over  to  the  West  side  where 
the  Depot  was.  But  we  exchanged  visits — frequently — I  going  to  Evanston,  she 
coming  to  Chicago.  And  Joe  was  always  a  sort  of  Star  in  the  little  plays,  dances, 
and  tableaux  we  got  up. 

Acting  I  thought  my  strong  point.  I  made  up  stories — described  scenes  and 
created  plays  so  that  my  favourite  heroes  could  be  introduced.  I  used  names 
from  books  and  characters  I  had  read  of  very  freely,  arranging,  mixing,  and  inter- 
changing at  will.  I  tried  to  fix  up  Gypsy-Caverns  using  draperies  for  background, 
borrowing  dresses,  skirts,  shawls  and  cloaks  to  make  tents  of,  or  to  dress  up  in. 
And  things  fancied  became  real.    They  existed. 

How  I  did  dream  of  big  voyages  and  set  my  plays  in  wonderful  metres  of  which 
I  knew  nothing  but  the  name.  It  must  be  we  come  into  the  world  with  our  brains 
ready  for  our  distinct  activities  and  tastes.  It  is  our  pronounced  tastes,  aspira- 
tions, desires  that  make  us  feel  and  enjoy  beforehand,  and  so  in  a  sense  live  our 
destinies. 

One  never  to  be  forgotten  Entertainment  I  conceived  wrote  and  planned  to 
give  to  the  assembled  family,  and  the  parents  of  the  children  who  participated. 
We  proudly  called  ourselves  "The  Theatrical  Club".  It  was  a  bitter  disappoint- 
ment in  consideration  of  all  the  thought  and  practise  we  as  a  Company  had  given 
to  it. 

I  loved  playing  parts  and  had  the  Stage  set  for  our  dramatics  in  the  Basement. 
The  hall  was  wide,  could  be  cut  off  and  made  up  for  an  imaginary  stage — the 
Dining  Room  large  and  finished  in  old  oak  was  an  excellent  Auditorium  where 
chairs  properly  placed  could  command  through  the  double  door  the  scene  beyond. 

That  Dining  Room  had  become  a  most  attractive  spot  for  me.  It  was  large 
and  had  deep  window  seats  where  I  could  curl  up  and  read  or  study.  And  now 
for  this  great  occasion  it  was  properly  rearranged,  and  all  the  family  and  guests 
there  gathered,  and  were  solemnly  seated.  As  a  sort  of  Prologue  to  the  play  a 
Vaudeville  performance  preceded  the  ambitious  melo-drama  which  I  had  entitled 
"The  Abducted  Princess  and  her  Valiant  Rescuer."  We  made  an  astonishing 
spectacle.  The  germinal  force  which  made  the  thing  go,  my  pride  and  enthusiasm, 
could  not  hold  out  when  cues  were  ignored,  and  roles  forgotten,  and  sentences 
mangled.  I  had  originally  one  purpose  in  view,  to  display  my  talent,  my  supposed 
"rare  talent"  for  theatrical  performances  to  my  astonished  Parents  and  Aunts. 
My  vanity  there  was  unlimited,  and  to  emphasize  the  occasion  the  interested 
neighbours  were  invited  in  and  had  gathered  in  great  anticipation  in  our  base- 
ment. There  was  no  earthly  reason  why  I  should  not  be  a  gallant  Prince,  and 
rescue  and  wed  the  lost  Princess! 

As  far  as  beautifying  was  concerned  I  had  done  my  best  with  the  few  properties 
at  my  disposal,  arraying  the  girls  for  their  parts  with  ever  growing  satisfaction 
and  proud  certainty  of  success.  I  felt  we  were  fully  able  to  look  the  parts,  and 
had  carefully  trained  the  actors;  and  the  play  opened  with  promise.  The  first 
scene  was  greeted  with  most  encouraging  applause— but,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few 
moments,  when  Dutch  Mary,  our  second  maid,  whose  fat  figure  and  swarthy 
countenance  seemed  to  my  mind  to  fit  her  for  the  part  of  Villain,  appeared  as 
an  Emissary  of  Evil — arrayed  in  a  long  coat  of  my  Father's,  and  below  the  coat 
as  she  swung  into  view  could  be  seen  some  old  striped  trousers,  and  heavy  boots 
a  good  deal  discoloured  with  mud,  which  I  had  deliberately  ordered  should  be 
dried  upon  them  to  look  as  if  she  had  come  a  great  distance,  her  advent  brought 
out  a  perfect  salvo!  I  had  hoped  that  the  old  black  soft  felt  hat  pulled  well  down 
over  her  head  would  be  sufficient  disguise.     Her  recitation  was  to  explain  her 

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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


purpose  to  abduct,  and  she  carried  a  rope  to  swing  back  and  forth  and  suggest 
danger  as  she  made  her  stealthy  approach.  Although  she  was  to  enact  the  heavy 
part  I  saw  she  couldn't  seem  to  learn  anything,  so  I  had  trusted  her  with  only 
three  lines,  practically  but  one  sentence — 

"Come  little  maiden — Come  with  me — 
Come,  and  Sweets  I'll  give  to  thee." 

But  when  she  stalked  in  and  the  audience  uproariously  cheered  the  spectacular 
entrance,  she  stood  stock  still  and  stared  round  wildly.  Every  word  forgotten — 
that  I  had  tried  so  carefully  to  instil,  training  her  for  days  beforehand  to  utter 
coaxingly — and  now  at  my  warning  glance  and  soft  prompting,  "Come — little — " 
she  suddenly  burst  forth  loudly  in  her  own  lingo: 

"Come  little  gal — 

Come  mit  me — 

And  I  give  Candy — " 

The  boisterous  merriment  made  me  desperate.  The  Play  was  doomed,  my  free  and 
daring  speech,  the  gem  I  thought  of  the  whole  play  was  heard,  if  at  all,  only  in  the 
intervals  of  shouting  laughter — details  were  forgotten,  actors  were  confused — 
all  the  leads  disregarded,  and  I  recall  that  unable  to  control  "my  Company",  I 
made,  struggling  with  my  tears,  a  speech  to  explain  "that  another  night  the  Play 
would  be  performed" — but  that  night  never  came.  The  mortification  put  out  a 
fire  that  nothing  could  rouse  again.     No  flames  came  from  those  dead  cinders. 

I  remember  that  I  asked  them  all  to  remain  for  a  few  Tableaux — Fairy  scenes 
and  dances — I  was  too  proud  although  choking  with  chagrin,  to  admit  entire 
defeat,  and  I  tried  not  to  cry  as  I  called  each  one  of  the  Actors  to  get  into  positions 
after  I  had  re-robed  them  for  Fairies  in  white  skirts  and  draped  night  gowns. 
And  I,  as  a  sort  of  Ariel  appeared  and  waved  a  wand,  a  cane  wrapped  in  white 
ribbon — and  I  plagiarized  freely — beginning — "All  Hail — Grave  Fairies  Hail? 
Great  Queen  I  come  to  do  thy  bidding?"  When  Titania  in  shape  of  little  Emma 
appeared  from  behind  the  screen  in  trailing  white — We'd  put  all  the  silver  touches 
possible  on  her  robe,  stars  were  cut  out  of  silver  paper  and  flappy  little  wings 
all  spangled  over,  which  now  wouldn't  stick  out,  we'd  sewed  on  to  the  shoulders 
of  her  gown. — To  her  I  knelt  extending  the  wand,  and  she  forgot  the  speech  in 
which  she  was  to  order  my  flight  over  the  earth  to  bring  her  treasures,  and  in- 
cidentally to  save  the  Princess  from  the  Ogre!  But  it  was  all  of  no  use — the 
laughter  continued — I  resigned  my  position  and  retired  understanding  that 
something  phenomonal  had  happened — that  I  had  not  succeeded  in  doing  the 
impossible.  No  entreaties  or  arguments  could  reinstate  me.  I  eschewed  play 
writing  and  play  acting.  There  was  an  inhibition  that  had  become  immediately 
applicable  and  all  such  performances  were  ended.  I  visualized  myself,  and  my 
intense  chagrin;  my  humiliation  on  the  increase  shut  me  out  from  the  stage  and 
its  glamour!  I  was  never  again  stirred  by  the  old  promise — nothing  in  that  line 
seemed  sure  or  stable,  for  all  my  vanity,  my  self  absorption,  my  concentration 
upon  it  and  its  concerns  had  not  given  me  the  requisite  ability  I  thought  to  do 
anything  fine.  I  excited  amusement  not  at  all,  admiration!  I  stirred  people 
to  laughter,  scornful  laughter  I  felt,  and  every  recollection  brought  the  tears  of 
mortification  hot  against  my  eyelids.  The  failure  was  unguessable  as  to  how  it 
occurred.  True,  Dutch  Mary  was  funny — but  I  didn't  know  that  would  kill  for 
my  audience  all  the  pretty  graceful  scenes  1  fancied  I'd  prepared.  1  hadn't  the 
leasi  idea  how  perfectly  ludicrous  it  was  to  middle  age,  because  the  perception 

of  its  thrilling  beauty  possessed  me;  delights  hail  been  quenched,  and  1  shaken 
forever  out  of  those  particular  grooves. 

Thanks  to  my  associations  and  my  temperament  I  was  soon  busy  exploring 
new   fields.      I   can   feel  again  the  rush  of  vigor  and   purpose  and  sheer  .ulmiration 

for  one  thing  ami  another;  exploring  for  new  friends  and  enjoying  those  who  drilled 

into  relations  thai   promised  reward  or  return.      I   thank  lle.i\en  lor  those  interests 

.uid  those  lives  thai  came  along  from  year  to  year,  oxygenating  by  new  interests 

and    fresh   enthusiasm.      The    men   and    women    I    saw    and    the   vonm;   ol    m\    own 


1'iiyr  yn 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


sex  brought  enrichment  and  sure  growth  which,  as  in  all  lives,  like  the  Century 
plant  itself,  requires  long  years  before  there  is  any  bloom. 

Of  course  I  grew  up  in  certain  traditions  in  a  certain  atmosphere,  and  the 
happiness  of  those  earlier  years  revealed  itself  in  all  its  own  radiance.  The  ex- 
citement of  recalling  these  bright  times  of  my  youth  when  I  felt  no  suspension 
of  power  to  enjoy — No  fears  in  the  passing  moment  that  anything  would  perish 
left  little  need  of  belief  in  immortality,  for  life  was  like  a  flashing  surprise!  I  was 
not  yet  a  passionate  pilgrim  on  this  earth — no  phase  of  service  necessary  to  con- 
version from  egotism  had  as  yet  awakened  me.  I  was  interested  in  myself,  my  own 
home,  my  own  schoolmates;  my  thoughts  were  seldom  away  from  the  home-circle 
and  my  eyes  only  open  to  individual  needs  and  individual  wishes.  I  felt  no  losses, 
and  I  needed  no  remedies.  I  was  still  gloriously  and  wonderfully  young.  I  did 
not  understand  complications  and  I  never  had  to  face  them.  It  was  Youth's 
splendour  and  Youth's  selfishness  incarnate. 

There  seemed  to  be  caverns  of  time  behind  us,  there  seem  to  be  caverns  of 
time  from  which  we  can  get  nothing  back;  nothing  to  make  a  single  record.  How- 
ever rapturous  the  delight  in  merely  watching  the  revolution  of  the  days  we 
cannot  hold  our  memory  to  the  music  in  the  mind. 

About  this  time  I  began  to  realize  what  a  Ministers'  or  Missionaries'  Hotel 
our  house  had  become.  My  Father's  hospitality  noised  abroad,  the  generous 
entertainment  given  and  welcome  never  lacking,  brought  the  Clergy  in  increasing 
numbers,  and  occasionally  here  and  there  some  devout  soul  plainly  desired  to 
serve  his  Master  and  pay  his  keep  by  bringing  the  young  daughter  of  the  house 
into  the  Kingdom.  I  began  to  learn  the  signs  of  the  very  pious,  who  cut  down 
human  nature  to  a  sort  of  irreducible  minimum  of  claim  to  natural  freedom  of 
development. 

And  there  was  a  certain  good  and  heretofore  gentle  old  Brother  who  had 
claimed  consideration  and  shelter  for  what  seemed  to  me  an  unconscionably 
lengthy  stay.  At  first  he  seemed  mild  enough  but  he  soon  showed  a  spirit  that 
denied  good  in  any  outsiders  from  the  Fold  where  he  felt  himself  endowed  with 
power  to  lay  down  the  law.  His  was  a  hard  gospel  of  unworthiness  in  everyone, 
and  he  walked  in  that  faith  doubting  all  individuals  not  in  the  Church,  and  his 
preaching  was  of  the  narrowest  and  severest  as  I  found  to  my  cost.  I  wonder 
what  pleasures  such  people  do  consider  lawful.  I  judged,  observing  his  excellent 
appetite,  that  roast  beef  and  plum  puddings  and  mince  pies  were  permissable 
revels,  and  I  noticed  he  never  scorned  sweets  of  any  sort  or  the  flavour  of  fruits! 

There  are  echoes  that  sound  in  a  thousand  memories  that  makes  the  entire 
past  of  childhood  come  rolling  in  long  waves,  slow  but  shining,  which  cannot 
submerge,  which  only  seem  to  cleanse  like  a  fresh  baptism.  That  man  had  given 
me  a  terrible  scoring,  and  I  hope  he  felt  he  had  done  his  duty — I  never  knew, 
and  although  his  remarks  were  his  stock  in  trade  and  in  a  sense  general,  the  de- 
nunciation sounded  very  personal.  And  when  I  got  away  I  just  knelt  down  and 
did  my  own  praying  decently  all  to  myself,  and  promised  myself  to  get  over  the 
dread  of  seeing  that  man  again;  but  his  memory  haunted  me  for  a  long  time  for 
he  had  given  me  a  sharp  warning.  Why  did  they  all  desire  to  convert  me?  I 
was  harmless  enough — but  like  a  sort  of  quarry  for  them  and  I  laugh  now  to 
think  of  what  a  profound  sense  that  minister  must  have  had  of  my  original  sin. 

It  was  that  year  I  was  attending  Dearborn  Seminary,  a  well  started  enterprise 
in  Chicago  for  young  girls  of  well-to-do  families,  which  soon  stood  quite  unchal- 
lenged in  the  Middle  West  for  educational  advantage  or  opportunity.  I  made 
quite  an  army  of  young  acquaintances  and  became  friends  with  several  of  my  own 
age  whose  attitude  was  flattering  because  I  could  reel  off  my  lessons,  was  chosen 
sometimes  to  make  long  recitations,  to  prepare  for  an  occasional  exhibition,  or  to 
read  a  high-sounding  composition  on  a  theme  probably  utterly  beyond  my  com- 
prehension. 

On  the  whole  I  did  not  learn  there  as  far  as  I  am  able  to  measure  it  the  fraction 
of  a  degree.  To  excel  without  study  is  not  calculated  to  inculcate  steadiness  or 
modesty. 


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We  were  always  it  seemed  during  that  year  hearing  and  talking  so  much  about 
Evanston.  The  Institutions,  Father  thought,  were  well  started  and  Father  seemed 
to  be  always  going  to  and  fro.  They  had  a  nice  little  Church  all  built  and  quite 
big  enough  to  hold  all  the  people  in  the  little  town.  The  College  and  Institute 
had  a  few  pupils  and  some  very  pleasant  professors,  especially  I  liked  Dr.  Bonbright. 
He's  small  and  young  and  very  blonde,  and  has  very  soft  hands,  and  he's  the  most 
perfect  formal  little  gentleman  that  ever  was.  He  talks  just  like  a  book  and  he's 
very  learned.  They  say  all  his  pupils  are  tremendously  impressed  because  he 
insists  on  everyone  observing  the  utmost  politeness,  as  well  as  reciting  their  lessons 
quietly  like  gentlemen  and  ladies.  I  like  him  lots,  and  I  like  the  Noyes  and  Kidders 
and  Bannisters  and  Willards.  They  are  all  nice  and  they  all  have  nice  houses, 
but  its  a  kind  of  bare  wilderness  up  there  after  all.  There  are  only  a  few  streets 
and  its  very  still  except  when  there's  a  storm  on  the  Lake;  but  I  oughtn't  to  speak 
as  if  it  was  a  desert — I  ought  to  call  it  a  wild  forest  for  its  trees,  trees,  trees  every- 
where which  makes  a  green  loveliness  up  there. 

Of  course  in  good  weather  I  like  to  go  to  Evanston,  because  Joe  and  I  like  to 
go  in  the  Lake  and  she  gets  the  girls  of  the  Village  to  come  and  see  me  and  some- 
times it's  very  jolly. 

It's  funny  to  see  Uncle  John  Evans  take  his  breakfast  as  if  he  had  a  whole  month 
to  do  it  in — every  minute  the  train  time  getting  nearer  and  nobody  can  ever 
hurry  him.  I've  laughed  inside  seeing  them  all  try,  with  that  Buggy  always 
waiting  at  the  door  and  Aunt  Margaret  saying  "Now  Pa,  you  know  it's  getting 
late",  and  he  slowly  swallowing  the  last  of  his  coffee.  Perhaps  he'll  say  "Plenty 
of  time",  or  perhaps  he'll  only  smile  and  ask  for  another  cup  of  coffee,  which  he'll 
relish  to  the  last  drop  and  it  seems  as  if  the  whole  of  Evanston  couldn't  make  him 
hasten  over  it.  "That's  good",  he  often  says  with  keen  approval;  then  up  with- 
out one  evidence  of  hurry  getting  leisurely,  sometimes  with  the  whole  family 
standing  nervously  by,  into  his  coat  and  hat,  and  giving  some  last  directions  or 
farewell  words  with  undisturbed  composure.  Then — a  swift  turn  from  that  door 
and  with  one  jump  he's  inside,  grabs  the  reins  and  dashes  off  like  mad.  It's  all 
in  a  second  and  you  can't  see  the  trap  as  it  tears  round  the  corner  and  makes  one 
shiver  for  fear  it'll  turn  over — but  it  never  does.  I  suppose  the  train  waits  if  he's 
not  there — They  say  he  comes  up  steaming  every  morning,  and  every  morning 
just  the  same  he  alights  coolly  from  his  Buggy.  The  boy  is  always  waiting  to  take 
it  back — and  he  throws  down  his  reins  and  calmly  gets  out,  and  calmly  gets  into 
the  waiting  Cars.  He  never  will  hurry  beforehand  and  he  was  never  known  to 
miss  that  train. 

One  morning  Joe  and  I  had  just  come  up  from  a  splashing  dashing  dip  in  the 
Lake  and  getting  out  of  our  wet  night  gowns  which  served  for  bathing  suits  she 
began  to  tell  me  about  the  new  President  Dr.  Foster,  and  his  clever  oldest  daugh- 
ter Florence-Annie  or  Annie  Florence;  "The  family  call  her  Annie,  but  the  girls 
called  her  Florence" — and  added,  "That  name  suits  her  better  for  she's  reserved 
and  haughty,"  and,  "there's  a  whole  lot  of  children  there  and  her  Father's  splendid 
looking  and  very  brilliant.  Father  says  we  ought  to  be  very  proud  to  have  such 
a  scholar  for  a  President";  when  she  suddenly  veered  to  something  quite  personal. 
"Frank  Willard  said  your  Father  had  an  acre  of  noble  brow" — "What  did  she 
mean  talking  about  my  Father  like  that?  Nobody  ever  saw  such  a  beautiful 
head  and  hair,  all  soft  and  curly,  like  Father's!"  1  uttered  it  indignantly  as  both 
protest  and  challenge.  "Oh  well  I  don't  suppose  she  meant  his  brow  was  bad, 
only  big  and  high  She  did  say  Uncle  Orringlon  was  handsome—  1  heard  her 
Once, and  t  here's  no  use  being  mail  because  he's  got  a  high  forehead,"  but  1  w.is 
not  quite  mollified. 

"Francis   Willard   has  got    a   soil    of  red   head   an\  w.n , and   she  thinks  she's  on 

top  of  the  heap."    "I'm  I  tell  you  she's  smart,"  spoke  up  Joe,    "she  knocks  spots 

out  of  mos1  of  i  hem.  II  you  could  only  hear  her  Journal !  Why  Nina,  \  on  is  isn't 
in  ii  !  It's  [USl  nothing  tO  hers  Why!  she  has  pages  and  pages  of  long  words, 
and  awful  high  thoughts  and  you  have  tO  use  a  lot  of  short  (Mies  1  mean  words, 
and  (he  talks  |UBt   about   a:,  did  and  fine  a:,  Dr.   Kidder  himsell,  onl\    it   sounds  more 

I'oyr  ;.• 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


stylish  and  like  little  Dr.  Bonbright!  Mary  Bannister  says  Frank  is  wonderful — 
the  way  she  can  talk  and  write — "  "I  suppose  she's  the  highest  type  of  culture 
you  have",  I  said  grandly;  but  modified  by  curiosity  and  aroused  interest,  my 
attempt  at  satire  ended,  and  I  continued  more  mildly,  "Don't  you  think  she'd 
read  her  Journal  to  me?  I  wish  you'd  ask  her;  tell  her  I  like  everything  of  that 
sort,  and  doesn't  Mary  Bannister  keep  one  too?  I  think  she's  sweet  and  awfully 
bright."    "Oh  yes,  they  all  have  Diaries,  but  Frank's  beats  the  bunch." 

I  admired  the  girls  of  Evanston  and  I  knew  inside  they  were  far  cleverer  than 
any  of  my  schoolmates.  I  liked  the  young  people  of  the  Kidder's,  Bannister's 
and  Willard's  especially.  Katie  Kidder  was  the  prettiest  of  the  whole  lot,  and 
although  her  Father  and  Mother  are  awfully  solemn,  high-minded  sort  of  people 
they  were  pretty  sociable  at  that  house.  The  students  gathered  there  often  be- 
cause Katie  was  so  pretty  I  suppose,  and  Dr.  Kidder  was  a  very  elegant  gentleman 
indeed.  He's  tall  and  fair  and  smooth  faced  and  has  very  bright  sharp  eyes.  He 
too,  had  an  acre  of  "Noble  brow",  and  the  most  shining  splendid  teeth  and  you 
could  see  them  a  block  off  when  he  smiled  for  they  were  something  to  show!  The 
Kidders  all  had  an  air  about  them,  and  somebody  called  their  house  the  "Social 
Centre".  There  were  plenty  of  books  and  everybody  was  made  welcome  but 
it  seemed  pretty  stiff  to  me.  At  the  Foster's  the  people  gathered  often  and  they 
said  everybody  there  was  likely  to  have  a  good  time  for  they  were  merry,  and  they 
made  everybody  feel  at  home.  Somebody  said  it  was  the  difference  between  Vir- 
ginia and  New  England  and  was  the  Southern  type.  Mrs.  Bannister  was  the 
sweetest  of  all  the  women  it  seemed  to  me.  She  was  so  gentle  and  had  such  a 
lovely  low  voice.  "It's  a  good  deal  like  a  big  family",  I  once  said  to  Joe  coming 
back  from  one  of  the  Evanston  parties,  and  "I  think  it's  pretty  dull."  After  I 
got  pretty  well  acquainted  with  them  all  I  had  the  girls  come  to  our  house  oc- 
casionally, and  we  had  some  jolly  times  in  Chicago;  but  best  of  all  I  liked  to  hear 
Frank  Willard's  Journal.  She  did  read  long  passages  and  pages  out  to  me  more 
than  once.  Joe  was  right — Mine  wasn't  a  circumstance  to  it;  and  I  used  to  listen 
to  those  readings  with  unstinted  admiration  for  her  vocabulary  and  her  lofty 
thoughts. 

And  now  I'll  turn  a  leaf  back  to  speak  of  another  contact  with  the  Ministry 
which  by  comparison  made  that  earlier  experience  seem  very  calm.  This  was 
like  a  whirlwind  and  created  havoc  and  it  stands  out  stark  and  dreadful.  I  was 
fourteen  at  the  time,  and  far  better  able  to  cope  with  attacks  than  at  the  earlier 
period  described,  and  I  must  admit  as  well  that  I  had  become  somewhat  hardened 
to  them.  I  shall  never  forget  the  censure  my  character  and  manners  received 
nor  the  unction  with  which  that  Clerical  attempted  to  bring  me  to  a  realization 
of  my  sins.  He  was  a  solid  substantial  looking  saint,  en  route  to  General  Con- 
ference, staying  over  a  few  days  for  rest  and  good  food,  I  do  believe.  He  was 
put  in  our  largest  guest  chamber,  was  quite  a  talker,  and  seemed  to  be  having  a 
fine  time. 

One  fatal  afternoon  he  managed  to  get  me  into  the  library  under  false  pre- 
tenses, because  he  asked  about  certain  books  there.  I  can  see  his  face  this  minute 
when  he  fixed  his  glance  and  opened  fire.  I  shuddered  inside  because  he  had 
actually  got  such  a  fine  opportunity  for  his  ministerial  criticism,  and  the  flagellation 
that  emphasized  it!  He  had  always  been  quite  polite  and  he  was  moderate  at  the 
first  go — but  he  was  a  man  of  religious  affectations  and  flaunted  his  spiritual 
authority  as  if  his  was  a  personal  friendship  with  the  Almighty.  He  said  he  wanted 
"to  help  me  learn  to  resist  the  temptation  of  my  gifts".  Fine  sentence  that! 
It  stuck  in  my  mind  and  I've  used  it  often,  and  it  is  choice  in  my  mouth  to  this 
day.  But  when  he  unctuously  proposed  that  we  kneel  and  implore  Divine  assist- 
ance, my  ire  rose.  Of  course  I  knew  I  used  my  tongue  pretty  freely,  and  he  did 
not  wait  to  haul  me  over  the  coals,  but  painted  my  portrait  in  lurid  colours  unless 
I  reformed  and  was  snatched  as  a  "Brand  from  the  Burning". 

I  was  as  mad  as  a  March  hare.  I  looked  right  at  him  and  deliberately  reiterated 
that  "I'd  attend  to  my  own  devotions  and  bridle  my  tongue  when  I  feel  like  it." 
To  be  assured  that  you'll  grow  up  into  a  disagreeable  and  unloved  woman  and 


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asked  to  pray  against  that  certainty  does  peril  courtesy  in  response!  What  business 
was  it  of  his  I  thought,  if  I  did  grow  up  disagreeable?  At  first  I  had  really  tried 
to  remember  Mother's  words — "That  no  matter  whether  we  liked  the  person 
or  not,  once  under  our  roof  and  dependent  upon  our  hospitality,  we  must  always 
be  considerate  and  polite  to  a  guest."  But  when  this  one  continued  to  insist, 
and  besought  me  to  get  on  my  knees  and  implore  the  Almighty  to  set  a  seal  on 
my  lips  all  politeness  gave  way,  and  my  training  was  forgotten.  "You  needn't 
trouble  about  it,"  I  said  very  hot,  but  still  struggling  to  speak  mildly. — "What! 
Not  ask  the  Lord  that  the  meditations  of  your  heart  and  the  words  of  your  mouth 
should  be  acceptable  in  His  sight?"  "I'll  do  my  own  praying,  and  be  much  obliged 
if  you'll  let  me  alone." — Mercy!  his  wrath  was  as  open  and  as  unregenerate  as 
mine.  He  told  me  a  few  things  I  won't  repeat,  and  didn't  scruple  to  declare  where 
I  was  going  if  I  continued  so  obdurate;  what  I  was  like,  and  like  to  become; — And 
when  I  said,  "My  relations  with  The  Most  High  was  no  affair  of  his"  he  was  in 
such  a  heap  of  wrathful  astonishment  over  what  he  called  "my  blasphemy"  that 
I  emphasized  my  own  state  of  mind  by  an  exit  that  was  not  noiseless. 

It  was  a  storm  upstairs  in  my  room  where  I  heaped  up  lamentations.  I  burst 
into  tears  the  moment  I  reached  that  haven.  All  his  accusations  at  first  seemed 
simply  cruel.  I  had  been  on  the  defensive  against  my  liberty — I  could  see  no 
further,  no  deeper  into  it.  In  hot  wrath  I  asked  how  it  was  possible  to  have  brought 
on  myself  such  wholesale  condemnation?  Did  outsiders  then  think  of  me  as  always 
defiant  and  disagreeable?  Had  I  caused  genuine  dislike  by  what  he  called  my 
assurance,  my  attempted  satires,  or  bad  manners,  or  ways  of  speech?  But  how 
I  hated  his  accusing  me  so  violently  and  insisting  on  my  asking  God  to  forgive 
me.  Satan  raged  in  me — and  I  just  sat  there  and  wailed,  and  wanted  to  pull  his 
hair!  He'd  overdone  it — and  for  all  my  gentle  rearing  I  felt  fierce  and  furious 
instead  of  mild  and  penitent.  What  difference  could  it  make  anyway,  to  him, 
what  way  I  grew  up?  And  I  remember  how  I  walked  about  my  room  and  went 
to  my  windows  and  looked  out. 

The  Lake  was  dark  and  rough  and  angry  and  that  seemed  worse  than  his 
words — and  I  looked  and  looked — and  so  I  ceased  to  struggle  and  something  rose 
in  me.  As  I  look  back  it  was  something  that  vibrated  in  my  poor  little  heart. 
It  was  like  a  sort  of  music  that  spoke  and  softened — like  the  wash  of  the  waves 
opposite. 

There  have  been  a  few  times  in  my  life  when  for  a  second  it  has  almost  seemed 
as  if  I  had  that  greater  gift  than  mere  sight,  the  imaginative  vision — but  it  has 
failed  frequently  to  declare  itself  in  seasons  of  need,  or  to  ensure  calm  judgment, 
and  the  effect  of  any  spiritual  insight  has  not  lasted  for  long.  I  am  grateful  for 
one  fact.  I  can  at  times  look  on  myself  objectively.  I  can  at  times  feel  there  is 
cause  for  criticism  even  when  convinced  of  its  unmerited  sharpness. 

And  then  and  there  in  the  very  throes  of  rebellion  and  revolt  my  Mother's 
invincible  charm  of  manner  and  voice  came  over  me.  Would  she  have  been  so 
racing  in  the  face  of  any  accusation?  I  could  not  imagine  her  voice  raised  into 
shrillness  and  commonness.  My  Mother  had  always  represented  to  me  the  quint- 
essence of  gentleness  and  refinement.  To  my  thought  as  a  young  girl  she  had 
all  the  graces  of  life  in  looks,  voice,  manners  and  habits.  Something  sweet  and 
Btrong  and  rarely  lovely  had  been  passed  down  to  her  through  a  long  line  01  an- 
cestry. Her  very  delicacy  and  serenity  seemed  the  most  potent  influence  for 
law  and  order.  No — I  knew  instinctively  thai  impertinent  words  could  never 
be  spoken  in  her  presence  and  suddenly  I  knew  also  what  she  demanded  01  her 
children  respect  for  their  elders,  courtesy,  self-control  and  a  kindlier  judgment. 
1    knew    I    had    provoked   whal    I    found    the   hardest    to  accept      and   the   thoughts 

engendered  began  now  to  act  like  a  merited  warning    at  least  1  must  have  deserved 

■"in'  "it  "(  comments  unpleasant  and  uiuoinplimcnt  ary.  It  re.illv  had  done 
me   no  injury.     On   the  contrary   it    forced   me   to   think   and   remember     "I.e. mi 

i"  ee  '."in  'If  a  little  as  others  see  you  "  Mother  had  several  times  said  to  me 
win  never  I  raised  my  voice  in  loud  protest,  or  any  sudden  impatience;  and     J 


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don't  like  that  tone"  was  her  familiar  reproof  if  my  discourtesy  or  resentment 
broke  forth  into  sharp  expression. 

And  although  I  must  always  call  in  question  that  Minister's  taste,  breeding  or 
knowledge  of  the  amenities,  and  consider  him  quite  outside  the  pale  and  a  most 
undesirable  guest,  still  he  had  given  me  cause  for  dwelling  on  my  own  defects 
and  deficiencies  as  no  one  else  before  had  ever  done.  I  had  a  shock  at  the  vision 
of  myself  as  he  painted  it,  and  knew  that  I  had  furnished  him  with  additional 
reasons  for  a  bad  opinion  of  me,  far  worse  than  first  entertained. 

While  I  conceded  and  considered  my  own  rudeness  I  was  yet  curiously  con- 
scious of  a  strange  inner  sinful  delight  in  giving  as  good  as  I  had  received!  In  a 
measure  realizing  how  I  had  appeared,  yet  for  that  one  sin,  as  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned, no  real  penitence  has  .ever  swept  over  me. 

Satan  continued  active  inside!  I  knew  myself  sorry  that  I  could  not  live  up 
to  something  finer  and  better,  and  I  did  make  a  resolution  to  think  a  little,  if  I 
ever  could,  before  rushing  into  speech;  and  to  drink  a  little  more  deeply,  as  my 
Father's  and  Mother's  daughter,  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness.  And  if  I  was, 
and  even  consciously  or  unconsciously  continued  to  be,  pretty  awful,  at  least 
I  never  made  public  complaint.  I  avoided  him  successfully  through  the  remainder 
of  his  stay  and  no  retaliation  of  mine  in  looks  or  manner,  when  we  did  meet,  could 
have  added  to  discomfort,  and  certainly  did  not  shorten  his  stay.  He  was  safe 
from  any  reports  of  that  disgraceful  scene,  and  I  broke  none  of  the  rules  of  hos- 
pitality inculcated  by  family  example — but  Heaven  help  me!  And  Heaven  be 
thanked,  that  in  my  home  lessons  of  courage,  honesty  and  devotion  were  waiting 
to  be  taught. 

Our  house,  I  think,  always  had  an  atmosphere  essentially  its  own,  for  first 
and  last  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word  it  was  a  home,  permeated  with  good  taste, 
warm  affection,  high  principle  and  fine  breeding,  which  made  generous  hospitality 
as  natural  as  its  genial  dispensing  was  characteristic.  And  it  was  amid  such  in- 
fluences that  I  was  learning  to  check  rudeness  and  develop  consideration  in  a 
happiness  and  peace  that  can  never  be  forgotten. 

THE    DREAM    PRINCE 

It  has  caused  me  no  trouble  or  unrest  to  become  fully  sensible  of  past  scenes. 
In  giving  my  thoughts  the  rein  and  allowing  them  to  take  me  back  to  childhood 
I  am  buoyed  up  as  past  life  flows  back  upon  me.  Subtle  memories  impel  me  to 
retrace  steps,  and  it  all  returns  with  the  strength  and  freshness  of  a  day  old  ex- 
perience. Vision  is  not  darkened  by  any  veil.  I  do  not  have  to  vex  myself  with 
struggles  to  add  brilliancy  or  poignancy  to  descriptions,  for  all  are  facts — exper- 
iences— no  play  of  imagination  that  creates  illusions.  They  are  the  beauties  and 
delights  of  this  world  as  they  appealed  in  the  joyousness  of  those  early  days,  and 
those  early  dreams  reveal  themselves  again  in  all  their  own  radiance. 

I  can  talk  almost  exactly  as  I  used — I  see  the  characters  and  persons  about  me 
as  then  and  feel  all  the  beautiful  play  of  that  sunshine  of  old.  The  very  flowers 
of  memory  have  dew  on  them.  They  arise  in  bright  bloom.  They  are  not  as 
dreams  for  all  I  set  down  are  absolute  realities.  Mine  is  a  distinct  remembrance, 
a  consciousness  not  dimmed  but  that  freshens  itself  each  time  I  write.  The  fra- 
grance of  those  yesterdays  when  circumstances  and  conditions  were  so  felicitous! 
After  all  to  an  intensely  imaginative  child  everything  dances  to  one  identical  tune — 
vivacity  of  feeling,  an  eager  thirst  for  knowledge,  capacity  for  enjoyment,  all 
unites  to  make  life  literally  a  dance  of  delighted  acquiescence,  and  whether  bring- 
ing anything  to  pass  or  not,  or  however  trifling  the  merry  pantomimic  scenes, 
extravagance  of  emotion  and  enjoyment  transmuted  all  to  gold. 

And  so  I  am  viewing  it  all  from  a  natural  vantage  point,  or  by  virtue  of  ir- 
repressible instinct  that  forever  urges  and  impels,  without  the  disturbance  of 
any  unaccustomed  tumult.  If  I  slept  open-eyed  in  those  first  years  impalpable 
Worlds  came  into  being,  every  sort  of  sphere  depicted  itself  as  dreams,  setting 
new  images  of  beauty  afloat. 

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And  now  another  step  onward  for  me  came  in  my  experience  at  the  new  Chi- 
cago High  School. 

Repeated  printed  advertisements  of  the  difficulties  of  entrance  had  caught 
attention  and  roused  interest,  and  I  at  once  declared  the  purpose  to  secure  for 
myself  the  much  flaunted  High-school  course.  To  do  that  I  must  submit  to  and 
pass  certain  examinations — a  new  yet  consciously  not  much  dreaded  test,  as  in 
that  stage  of  ignorance  I  was  afraid  of  nothing.  Fear  was  never  a  companion 
of  mine. 

It  was  a  bright  July  morning  that  collected  the  applicants  and  skimmed  the 
cream  of  private  schools.  I  was  driven  over  and  at  the  entrance  joined  the  ex- 
cited groups,  a  unit  among  many.  I  felt  keen  zest,  but  no  embarrassment  as  I 
sat  in  my  appointed  place  in  one  of  the  several  well  filled  rooms.  I  applied  myself 
interestedly  to  the  work  assigned,  struggling  to  answer  as  quickly  and  as  best 
I  could  the  written  questions  given  us. 

The  hours  fled  and  when  we  broke  for  a  recess  at  noon  I  noticed  with  a  slight 
sinking  how  many  knew  each  other,  and  how  they  came  together  or  separated 
for  luncheon  which  they  had  known  enough  to  supply.  The  evidence  sharpened 
hunger  and  loneliness,  and  I  went  out  into  the  wide  corridor  alone  and  hungry. 
As  long  as  I  live  I  can  never  forget  the  leap  in  my  heart,  the  sensation  of  joy  as 
my  eyes  fell  on  my  blessed  Mother.  She  sat  waiting  to  care  for  me  and  smilingly 
beckoned  me,  as  she  held  up  to  view  a  pretty  little  oval  basket  she  had  purchased, 
containing  the  daintiest  of  luncheons.  My  greedy  eyes  sparkled  as  they  fell  on 
sandwiches,  hard-boiled  eggs,  fruit  and  cake,  all  packed  in  that  fancy  basket, 
arranged  to  surprise  and  enchant  me.  That  incident  stands  out  sharply,  showing 
so  clearly  what  I  have  since  learned,  that  my  Mother's  singleness  of  aim  and 
unselfish  devotion  to  her  children  was  beyond  measurement,  as  it  was  then  be- 
yond appreciation. 

The  act  I  do  not  claim  as  unusual  to  be  supplied  under  such  circumstances; 
but  conditions  made  it  truly  exceptional  and  a  severe  strain  on  endurance.  It  was 
very  hot.  Strangely  that  special  day  my  Father  had  driven  far  up  the  North 
Shore  to  look  over  those  beloved  Educational  Institutions,  which  had  materialized 
and  created  Evanston.  No  carriage  therefore  was  at  my  Mother's  disposal.  The 
High  School  was  far  on  the  West  side  and  a  long  distance  from  our  Michigan 
Avenue  home.  She  had  walked  to  the  shops,  had  prepared  and  packed  a  dainty 
little  meal  in  the  lovely  new  basket.  She  was  very  tired  and  pale  as  she  sat  wait- 
ing for  my  appearance.  When  I  reached  her  side  she  had  encouragement  for  mind 
and  food  for  body;  and  full  of  sympathy  for  me  lest  I  grow  too  weary  in  the  effort. 
She  said  nothing  of  those  hot  walks  in  the  blazing  sun.  She  went  her  long  way 
back  with  the  emptied  basket  and  never  one  word  of  personal  fatigue.  It  was 
only  one  proof  of  many.  Oh  Mother!— Oh  Mother,  Mother!  Did  I  ever  give 
thanks  enough  for  you  and  your  love?  God  knows  I  suffered  enough  after  you 
passed  into  the  shrouding  shadows  and  unbroken  silence,  although  goodness 
and  mercies  spared  you  to  me  until  I  too,  had  counted  up  many  /ears  and  knew 
in  some  measure  the  sad  disillusionment  and  losses  and  sorrows  of  hue  middle 
life. 

The  High  School  curriculum  of  study  was  far  in  advance  of  any  preceding  or  es- 
tablished order  with  which  1  had  been  familiar,  and  in  that  atmosphere  under 
well  trained  Teachers,  I  appeared  for  a  while  to  thrive,  for  there  at   last,  was  my 

sole  experience  of  demanded  or  fairly  rendered  scholastic  work. 

There   was  also  one  greal    eye-opener  in   what   co-education  offered.      For  the 

first  i  ime  I  mel  daily,  and  crew  familiar  and  contended  in  classes,  with  boys.  They 

had    been    before   an    unknown    quantity,   and    as    they    became    familiar   in    daily 
interchanges  and  contests,  1  grew  more  interested  in  the  sex. 

There  were  in  the  same  room  with  me  two  who  stood  out  sharply  with  char- 
acteristic! as  Bharp  as  their  rank.  Albert  Lane  was  tall,  finely  developed,  and 
unusuall)  good-looking;  be  was  always  genial  and  his  looks  and  manner  made 
him  irerj  popular;  he  was  fair  and  florid,  with  curlj  brown  hair,  and  to  me  in- 
ter)  ting  I  ><■<  -i  M .'  he  o  high  in  his  classes;  he  had  a  beautiful  voice,  and  with 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


Edward  Williams,  a  small  slight,  dark-eyed  boy,  quiet  and  most  refined,  often 
contended  for  prizes  in  oratory.  The  two  boys  were  always  called  upon  for  re- 
citations when  the  room  was  on  exhibition,  and  they  topped  all  others  in  charm 
and  gifts.  We  were  in  some  of  the  same  classes,  our  relations  were  pleasant, 
but  we  never  got  beyond  the  cordial  acquaintance  that  meant  only  free  expressions 
of  opinion  and  the  mutual  invitations  for  one  or  the  other  entertainment. 

There  was  a  dark-eyed  youth  named  Louis  Tucker,  who  asked  the  privilege 
of  walking  home  with  me,  and  as  it  touched  my  vanity  to  receive  any  special 
attentions,  arid  to  carry  my  books  gave  me  a  set-up  feeling  entirely  novel,  I  fre- 
quently gave  him  very  loftily  permission  to  be  my  escort.  It  went  no  further, 
and  as  I  look  back,  I  think  it  was  because  I  lacked  the  "come  hither"  in  my  eye, 
and  really  did  not  know  how  to  flirt.  I  lacked  that  fine  instinct,  and  I  do  not 
think  I  have  ever  learned  the  art. 

Mr.  Dupee,  the  Head  Teacher,  had  very  strong  hold  upon  us  all.  His  marked 
superiority  as  Instructor  and  Scholar,  inspired  respect  and  commanded  deference. 
And  at  that  period,  eager  to  reach  high  levels,  I  was  told  that  those  deep  lines 
between  his  eyes  meant  intellectuality,  and  that  whenever  seen  in  any  human 
countenance  they  indicated  pre-eminence  and  exceptional  powers.  I  remembered 
also  that  Grandfather  had  deep  wrinkles  between  his  eyes  and  dark  circles  under 
them.  I  knew  his  mind  was  stored  with  knowledge  and  I  saw  several  people  who 
seemed  to  have  that  mark.  By  a  curious  logical  mental  process  I  asked  why 
couldn't  I  produce  such  evidence?  Even  if  I  wasn't  a  great  scholar  or  different 
from  other  girls,  I'd  like  to  look  different; — Why  couldn't  I  make  lines  grow  upon 
the  brow  at  proper  angles  to  bridge  the  nose?  Having  none — I  still  soared  with 
desire  to  acquire  their  outside  dress.  And  so  with  vitality  and  determination, 
I  sat  before  my  mirror  fiercely  determined  to  do  my  best  to  make  my  face  look 
wise.  I  screwed  up  furiously  to  make  the  requisite  wrinkles  at  the  requisite  spot. 
It  was  hard  work  to  hold  them  there,  but  if  one  persists  in  anything  long  enough 
measurable  success  follows.  Many  times  I  examined  and  practised,  and  soon 
slight  lines  appeared  that  I  could  draw  at  will,  but  not  hold  long  in  place.  I  was 
finally  convinced  that  will  power  was  no  secondary  matter.  These  efforts  did 
not  advance  my  education;  but  they  operated  upon  my  countenance,  and  long 
continued  efforts  finally  made  apparent  faint  indications  of  such  superiority. 
A  few  faint,  or  furtive  lines  coming  between  my  eyes  occasionally  supported  my 
idea  that  there  was  proof  of  intellectual  supremacy,  and  with  great  calmness  of 
conviction,  I  felt  that  I  had  secured  a  physical  asset  as  well.  Mine  was  a  gay 
optomistic  sort  of  conscience  that  worked  cheerily  and  gave  me  no  trouble. 

About  this  time  there  moved  into  our  neighbourhood  a  family  with  whom  I 
readily  established  relations  of  affectionate  comradeship.  The  two  daughters, 
one  three  years  my  senior  the  other  my  own  age,  I  found  congenial  from  the 
very  first.  Annie,  the  younger,  was  fair  and  plump  and  pretty,  a  blonde  pretti- 
ness  not  at  all  uncommon,  but  Lou,  the  older,  small  and  fascinating,  hair  soft 
and  brown  like  her  eyes,  oval  face,  delicate  features  and  ready  smile,  was  unusually 
attractive. 

But  oh!  the  son  and  brother!  Tall,  slender  and  young,  it  was  like  something 
coming  out  of  darkness  into  light  whenever  I  saw  him,  a  funny  little  heart-stab 
or  a  brain-stab.  Oh!  silly  age  of  girls  which  most  of  us  know  so  well,  but  sharp 
astringent  medicine  comes  later!  Perhaps  I  can  hardly  present  this  phase  in 
proportion  to  its  importance.  He  appealed  to  me  as  a  flawless  masterpiece  and 
I  prostrated  myself  joyously  before  that  Shrine.  It  was  beauty  thrown  finally 
into  fascinating  physical  relief  that  appealed,  while  allowing  me  to  bask  fanci- 
fully in  its  light,  and  what  was  painted  inwardly  pointed  to  something  of  high 
value  belonging  to  what  is  Divine  and  ultimate  and  eternal  in  us  all — Love,  in- 
comparable and  splendid  to  my  awakened  fancy,  my  first  love!  My  first  object 
of  worship! 

I  suppose  what  the  human  heart  is  always  seeking  until  wisdom,  knowledge 
or  experience  has  demonstrated  the  impossible,  is  an  object  of  worship.  My 
juvenile  admiration  of  that  young  man's  expansive  splendours  was  like  aspiring 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


religion  in  its  fervor  of  absorption.  Under  the  magnifying  glass  of  my  excited 
imagination  he  came  out  with  glorious  distinctness  as  the  most  unique  being  of  the 
Universe. 

He  continued  to  tower  above  all  others  in  my  secret  soul.  All  sentiment  now 
had  its  outlet  and  was  hurled  in  hunks,  but  often  shook  me  by  its  impact.  He  was 
perfect,  and  mysterious  too,  for  his  manner  like  his  face  carried  for  me  an  im- 
penetrable mask.  I  was  very  sincere  in  swinging  incense  before  the  Altar  I  had 
erected,  and  every  other  youth  I  ever  saw  or  met  was  dull,  colourless,  toneless, 
commonplace,  compared  with  that  adorable  one  who  never  so  much  as  suspected 
my  silent  adoration. 

He  did  everything  so  well  and  with  so  much  facility.  He  was  always  so  beauti- 
fully dressed.  He  was  always  so  erect.  He  would  always  lift  his  hat  so  politely 
when  we  met,  and  I  always  noticed  how  his  hair  shone,  and  to  me  that  marvel- 
ous youth  possessed  value,  beauty,  and  gracefulness  which  gave  me  ecstasies 
of  approval  and  delight. 

Of  course  it  excited  me  to  run  a  whole  gamut  of  fancy,  and  yet  did  not  as  I 
recall  it  unbalance  or  hurt  me  eventually,  since  the  standards  I  was  used  to  were 
never  lost  sight  of  and  the  fascinating  youth  himself,  courteous  and  friendly, 
never  once  suspected  my  abject  devotion.  He  was  entirely  guileless  as  far  as  I 
was  concerned,  considering  me  as  one  to  whom  there  was  nothing  particular  to 
say,  and  once  in  a  while  his  manner  ignored  me  so  entirely  that  I  felt  limp  and 
drooping;  and  it  was  an  overwhelming  catastrophe  when  too  many  days  passed 
without  a  single  chance  for  Good-morning,  or  Good-evening,  or  How  do  you  do, 
or  Good-bye.  It  was  a  short  journey  from  my  home  to  his  but  a  far  longer  one 
from  his  home  to  mine,  where — notwithstanding  his  regular  invitations  to  social 
gatherings  large  or  small  or  any  little  neighbourhood  entertainments — -he  failed 
to  put  in  his  much  yearned  for  appearance;  but  terribly  as  I  missed  that  joy  it 
only  served  to  register  more  deeply  in  my  memory  the  looks  and  vast  superiority 
of  that  "Prince  of  Dreams"  whose  value  and  potentiality  for  future  greatness 
was  only  the  more  assured  in  my  mind. 

He  was  preparing  to  enter  a  large  law-firm.  Ambitious,  proud,  determined 
and  gifted  he  studied  late  and  long,  and  often  evenings  I  walked  by  the  house 
that  sheltered  that  paragon  with  one  excuse  after  another  to  gaze  up  at  the  light 
in  his  window — wonderful  as  a  Star  and  as  distant!  I  had  never  encountered 
anyone  so  indifferent,  so  little  alive  even  to  the  fact  of  being  admired,  and  that 
something  in  him  which  assailed  me  at  first  was  something  which  never  defaces  or 
distorts  the  human  mind.  He  first  piqued  my  interest  as  a  girl  of  fourteen,  and 
his  inner  aloofness,  his  individual  interests,  his  intense  studiousness,  all  helped 
me  to  embark  on  the  disastrous  building  of  Castles  in  Spain;  for  with  unshakable 
confidence  in  my  powers  of  judgment  I  was  convinced  of  his  ultimate  Kingship — 
that  he  was  to  be  enthroned  somehow  in  future  greatness. 

There  were  some  pangs  in  that  enormous  episode  carried  to  such  heights, 
entirely  without  outward  expression;  since  at  no  period  can  I  remember  special 
encouragement,  but  some  way  that  did  not  rack  my  feelings  long.  Once  or  twice  I 
thought  he  was  looking  at  me  with  some  interest,  but  it  was  always  the  look  that 
people  give  to  some  ordinary  familiar  or  unstudied  object,  when  someone  speaks  of, 
or  to  it.  My  voice  would  become  quite  unmanageable  if  I  found  him  listening, 
and  it  made  me  falter  and  feel  clumsy.  I  then  felt  myself  the  most  commonplace 
of  my  sex  without  the  coveted  lure  of  beauty  or  any  special  fascinations,  while 
the  adorable  brother  so  exquisitely  proportioned  was  perfectly  at  case  ami  suc- 
cessfully  preparing  for  the  loftiest    position  among  men!     And  once  in  a  while   1 

tortured  my  imagination  over  my  own  iinuort hincss.  lie  h.ul  no  sharp  out- 
lines.     I  I'-   had   no  defect  ions. 

I  viewed  liim  somehow  in  an  extensive  clarity  of  vision  that  defined  and  painted 

a  transfigured  picture.  Mis  beauty  tnerelj  exaggerated  on  an  enormous  scale 
made  him  a:,  powerful  a;,  he  was  amazing.  There  were  no  disturbing  possibilities 
in  my  dreaming  I  never  distressed  myself  aboui  it.  I  Buppose  1  was  guarded 
by  the  very  simplicity  of  my  heart.    Love  was  natural  a:,  the  drawing  oi  breath. 


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I  never  thought  myself  as  either  fortunate  or  unfortunate.  I  could  not  have 
wished  for  a  more  enthralling  ideal  or  idol;  and  at  first  I  was  too  young  to  feel 
it  necessary  to  conceal  how  wonderful  he  was  in  my  sight.  I  lived  in  the  day. 
I  managed  to  see  him  frequently  although  often  from  a  distance.  He  walked  by 
our  house  occasionally  on  his  way  to  and  from  town,  and  a  sight  was  enough 
honour  for  the  moment.  The  courteous  recognition,  if  we  met  on  the  street, 
recompensed  me  for  all  my  planning  to  accomplish  that  desired  end.  Even  if  it 
should  chance  that  we  merely  passed  on  the  street,  whether  he  saw  me  or  not, 
I  had  uplifted  thoughts,  I  was  upraised  at  once  and  carried  high  above  myself. 

To  care  for  another  out  of  all  proportion  and  despite  indifference  is  to  pierce 
the  armour  of  one's  egotism.  I  cared  with  a  sort  of  singleness  of  devotion  which 
is  the  glory  and  the  curse  of  such  natures — of  the  fatally  warm-hearted.  For 
four  years  he  held  his  place,  and  even  after  death  a  kind  of  feeling  of  awed  passion 
grew  in  me  as  if  emotionally  I  walked  on  tip-toe. 

I  continued  in  a  sense  bowing  before  that  Altar  my  mind  blindly  seeking  its 
complement;  held,  yet  uneasy  perhaps,  because  of  its  strange  sense  of  incomplete- 
ness. But  what  I  carry  in  my  memory  has  long  since  recompensed  itself,  and 
what  I  secure  in  remembering  is  the  noble  face  and  carriage,  the  rare  and  tested 
charm,  the  proven  heroism,  bravery  and  gallantry  of  that  Prince  of  Dreams. 

It  was  all  a  fable  of  the  Arabian  Nights  and  a  dream  rapture  to  think  of  it — 
Satire  or  mocking  tale?  What  did  I  care  who  indulged  in  its  rapturous  dream — 
nothing  shattered  that  dream  for  reality  never  obtruded  itself.  I  loved  to  love 
him,  and  for  all  those  years  he  remained  in  truth  my  Fairy  Prince — life-like — 
and  dream-like — unapproachable. 

Had  he  lived  I  am  sure  he  would  have  achieved  what  he  wished  to  achieve, 
but  he  was  fated.  He  was  one  of  those  who  leave  this  life  by  tragic  means.  The 
Seal  was  on  his  forehead.  He  died  a  hero  doing  at  the  time  what  he  had  left 
everything  to  do.  It  may  have  seemed  an  unfinished  life — it  was  in  point  of 
years,  but  it  was  a  much  more  important  life  than  most.  He  left  an  example,  a 
sort  of  guide  to  existence,  and  what  he  stood  for  cannot  be  forgotten. 

He  gave  me  my  first  miraculous  impressions,  and  there  are  griefs  as  there  are 
breakdowns  in  fancy  that  nothing  makes  up  for. 

And  now  to  jump  some  years — When  they  fired  on  Fort  Sumpter  and  the 
whole  North  in  one  hour  as  one  man  was  aroused  to  battle  for  the  Flag  the  South 
had  lowered,  in  a  few  days  thereafter  I  lost  sight  of  him  forever. 

He  was  an  Officer  of  The  Ellsworth  Zouaves,  A  Company  of  our  best  young 
men, admirably  equipped  for  spectacular  performances,  and  now  suddenly  ready 
for  serious  service.  Chicago  was  very  proud  of  that  splendidly  trained  Company — 
They  were  ready  even  to  full  uniform  and  equipment  and  were  at  once  started  for 
the  War  Zone.  Never  shall  I  forget  that  last  sight  of  him  as  they  marched  through 
the  City  to  the  Station.  That  vision  of  his  face — the  face  of  a  scholar  with  the 
mien  and  stateliness  of  a  soldier. 

As  the  Company  passed  our  house,  where  on  the  steps  and  balconies  a  crowd 
of  friends  watched  and  cheered,  it  seemed  to  me  that  once  he  turned  his  pale  fixed 
face  upward  and  smiled  a  signal  of  recognition.  The  night  before  when  he  said 
Good-bye  he  had  asked  me  to  write  to  him.  I  have  always  been  proud  of  that 
request — and  the  crowning  wonder  of  it — he  gave  me  his  photograph  in  uniform. 
How  can  I  ever  but  be  glad  that  I  idealized  him  and  was  never  disillusioned? 
He  was  magnificent.  That  last  sight  of  him  in  full  uniform,  all  of  him  from  the 
cap  to  the  shining  tip  of  his  boots  seemed  in  a  special  radiance  of  sunlight  to  my 
dazzled  vision. 

The  brilliant  Company  in  perfect  discipline  went  flashing  by,  making  sure 
promise  of  victory  to  our  Arms  in  its  bravery  of  colour,  and  to  our  unaccustomed 
eyes  in  its  martial  splendour.  It  was  an  unforgettable  scene — I  was  speechless, 
open-eyed,  open-mouthed,  open-hearted  with  breath  almost  suffocated  as  the 
pageant  passed  in  its  full  glory.  "Look — Look,"  I  whispered  to  my  Father — 
"Oh  Look — Look  at  him — at  him."  And  the  spell  was  not  broken  until  long  after 
that  marching  Company  of  young  Patriots  had  passed  from  sight  for  ever. 


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He  entered  the  War  a  Captain,  recklessly  brave  and  rarely  efficient,  and  died 
on  the  Battle-field  two  years  later  a  Colonel,  leading  his  men  in  one  of  the  great 
charges  and  sacrificing  his  life  for  its  victory.  As  they  found  him  on  the  Battle- 
field wounded  and  dying  he  spoke  once — "  Turn  my  face  to  the  North." — It  rang, 
as  repeated  through  rank  after  rank,  like  words  re-echoed  from  the  Great  Silence 
to  urge  the  Army  on. 

Memory  of  his  heroism  and  self-sacrifice  makes  my  prodigal  unasked  offering 
worthy.  In  the  last  analysis  for  me  to  love  in  life  or  death  someone  outside  my 
family  meant  magic,  an  invisible  sort  of  spell. 

Youth  possesses  the  proud  illusion  of  its  own  value  as  of  its  own  immortality, 
and  it  raises  haughty  Idols  for  itself  and  stretches  them  up  high  into  the  infinite 
blue.     May  the  Lord  defend  Youth  lumbering  along  the  Highway  of  Life. 

THE    FINISHING    SCHOOL 

It  was  about  this  time  I  began  making  up  my  mind  that  certain  mistakes 
educationally  must  not  be  repeated;  that  I  began  to  wish  most  earnestly  not  to 
waste  my  hours;  that  I  began  to  realize  such  knowledge  as  I  found  in  those  High 
School  Teachers  to  be  of  some  account.  And  so  I  wanted  to  better  satisfy  my 
Examiners  although  the  prospect  of  severe  study  was  somehow  indescribably  grey. 

But  I  had  begun  to  find  it  entertaining  to  listen  to  long-winded  discussions, 
to  certain  lectures,  even  to  sermons,  and  to  hear  conversations  and  be  with  older 
people  of  some  scholarship.  I  now  wanted  eagerly  the  testimony  of  praise  from 
high  sources,  and  I  wished  and  worked  for  benignant  sentences  of  approval,  when 
I  had  really  prepared  and  scored  well  with  my  recitations.  So  good  resolves  grew 
and  began  to  sway  in  my  brain. 

I  think  my  frankness  was  that  of  a  child,  unconsidered,  instinctive  and  with 
no  practise  in  the  facile  ways  of  compromise.  I  was  not  well  acquainted  with 
"The  Father  of  Lies",  I  was  never  suspicious,  and  I  could  be  easily  deceived  and 
very  easily  circumvented. 

Yet  I  have  always  believed  that  directions,  guidance  and  associations  in  that 
High  School,  the  course  of  study  marked  out,  and  the  insistent  demand  upon 
industry  and  application  as  well  as  the  spur  to  ambition,  would  have  been  most 
advantageous  in  development  for  me  had  it  continued,  but  all  suddenly  it  closed 
down.  In  the  sunshine  my  life  had  been  aroused  to  higher  effort  and  was  becoming 
increasingly  interesting  when  suddenly  the  centre  of  it  shifted  to  New  York. 

It  was  quite  a  delirious  excitement  to  get  ready  for  the  reported  "Finishing 
School"  of  those  times  at  3  and  5  West  38th  Street,  on  the  corner  of  5th  Avenue 
of  which  I  had  heard  many  descriptions.  Curiously  enough  this  period  seems  more 
of  a  remote  past  than  all  that  preceded  it.  I  know  that  lots  of  interesting  things 
happened  initiating  me  into  that  life,  yet  memory  has  become  somewhat  blurred. 
The  landscape,  looking  back,  is  familiar,  I  see  the  clear  outline  of  many  people 
and  things,  yet  some  of  them  as  through  a  faint  mist,  although  knowing  so  well 
all  the  time  that  they  were  important  as  they  then  existed. 

In  that  large  school  no  teacher  turned  on  the  lights  in  his  or  her  special  depart- 
ment so  that  attainment  meant  a  renewal  of  right  spirit,  or  any  real  progress  and 
d.  I  never  learned  there  the  significance  of  things,  and  the  quality  of  impres- 
reccived  and  stored,  gave  me  no  joy  or  interest  in  aiming  at  any  special 
distinction.  It  was  simply  and  inevitably  the  principle  of  conformity  to  rules  and 
text-books.      1    cannot    believe   that    I    showed   any   results  or  had   .my    income  of 

treasure  to  look  back  upon  ami  remember,  except   the    widening    experience  oi 

human  nature.     I  was  usually,  I  think,  in  conciliatory  moods;  I  was  not  pretentious 

or  hypocritical;  bui   I  never  there  bad  emblazoned  on  nrj   shield  faithfulness  to 
study  or  any  beatitude  thai  1  ailed  to  me. 

I  had  bteen  sent  to  New  York  according  to  plan  in  my,  bo  to  speak,  conventional 

education.    Thai  ma)   have  promised  dazzlingl]   to  mj   beloved  parents,  whose 

understandable  temptation  was  to  give  theii  onlj  daughtei  every  opportunity 

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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


for  advancement,  and  yet  with  no  knowledge  how  to  keep  the  balance  sheet  that 
would  have  indicated  clearly  the  success  or  failure  of  different  experiments. 

As  for  my  Father,  firm  was  his  belief,  that  in  the  dear  Lord's  time,  the  work 
of  our  hands  would  be  established  upon  us;  and  surely  my  Mother  must  have  felt 
that  her  children  should  be  given  every  opportunity  and  allowed  every  indulgence 
that,  in  her  judgment,  seemed  to  promise  desired  results.  But,  Oh!  the  elaborate 
futility  of  Fashionable  Schools!  No  technique  for  severe  self-measurements  or 
discriminations,  no  fair  understanding  of  individual  talent. 

It  was  an  over-development  in  keeping  ideas  close  to  earth,  and  a  reduction 
of  practice  to  the  level  of  worldly  standards.  It  is  when  the  Eternal  Standard, 
the  estimate  of  worth  in  terms  of  efficiency  and  nobility,  is  observed  that  helpful- 
ness and  guidance  become  an  inspiration;  but  lacking  sincerity  and  simplicity 
nothing  is  done  well. 

So  few  seem  to  know  what  to  do  with  the  individuality  of  child  or  growing 
girl.  It  is  not  somehow  seen  that  we  are  all  individuals  at  every  age  or  stage  of 
growth.  My  natural  element  resisted  the  efforts  of  teachers  and  surroundings 
to  subjugate  it — peace  and  enjoyment  was  not  easily  disturbed. 

For  ever  tugged  at  my  heart  the  beauty  of  things,  the  things  seen  and  felt, 
so  that  love  of  life  had  a  hot  intensity  in  me,  and  it  never  burned  low.  The  great 
Universe  did  not  speak  even  in  shadowy  terms.  My  world  was  just  about  my  feet, 
and  little  things  spoke  loudly  and  meant  to  me  what  I  never  dreamed  I  could  live 
without. 

Alas!  In  New  York  I  had  no  passion  for  learning,  but  in  a  modified  sense  it 
is  true  to  say  that  I  loved  my  books— stories  and  poems  continued  to  have  a  terrible 
fascination,  and  took  firm  hold  of  imagination.  It  was  as  if  my  heritage  was  a 
sense  of  exhiliration,  my  training  seemed  of  a  kind  to  make  me  rather  more  of  a 
good  friend.  There  was  there,  as  everywhere,  good  opportunities  for  warm  human 
relationships  touched  with  a  maximum  of  imagination.  I  felt  free  as  air  to  demon- 
strate preferences,  and  yielded  readily  to  the  heady  impulses  of  youth  eager  for 
adventure,  and  therein  lay  the  explanation  of  many  things  I  did,  and  much  I  felt. 
The  Puritan's  shadow  was  never  over  me. 

Our  Soul  is  not  subject  to  periods,  and  certain  experiences  are  never  wholly 
out  of  date.  It  is  a  temptation  to  dramatize  one's  lot  and  be  a  bit  picturesque  if 
possible  about  oneself,  especially  in  new  and  strange  surroundings,  with  a  re- 
pressed home-sickness  that  shows  how  distant  ones  daily  life  is  from  what  one  wants 
it.    So  to  make  a  picture  of  it  all  is  the  thing  now  to  be  resisted. 

After  all  there  was  something  to  me  sweet  underneath  everything  about  living, 
even  in  those  brown  stone  walls;  for  there  was  always  a  wonderful  time  ahead, 
and  so  much  to  learn  and  feel  about  the  people  around  you.  I  sometimes  feel 
that  even  then  I  had  an  outsider's  perspective,  which  probably  is  the  proper 
perspective  as  it  saves  one  from  too  exaggerated  a  sense  of  individual  importance. 
And  from  the  first  day  I  managed  to  get  a  good  deal  of  rather  detached  amusement 
out  of  things,  my  relations  with  them  at  first  being  very  slight. 

The  moralizing  of  the  Pharisee  at  the  Head  of  the  School!  I  can  see  that  broad 
face,  the  very  mobility  of  it  was  unpleasant.  There  was  no  lack  of  expression  that 
he  seemed  for  ever  forcing  into  a  benignant  loftiness  of  look  and  patronage — but 
his  was  a  curiously  flattened  face,  the  hair  framing  or  topping  it  standing  straight 
up  on  his  high  forehead  in  a  pompadour  most  fetching.  His  head  someway  was 
incongruous,  his  eyes  had  a  curious  glint  behind  the  benevolence,  and  strangely 
enough,  as  he  rambled  on  in  daily  preachments  that  no  one  minded,  he  someway 
at  times  suggested  the  feline. 

The  Teachers  under  his  driving  rod  of  speech  tried  often  futilely  to  fit  in  by 
example  with  what  they  struggled  to  teach.  No  where  scholarship,  no  where 
striking  nobility  or  examples  of  the  right  and  wrong  always  talked  about — facts 
and  fine  illustration  constantly  shelved  instead  of  challenging  in  power— nothing 
specially  interesting  or  exciting,  a  sort  of  droning  monotony  in  the  school. 

There  were  over  a  hundred  day  scholars  and  about  thirty  boarders,  and  they 
all  blended  at  first,  or  like  some  crazy-quilt,  showed  no  beauty  or  harmony. 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


My  first  thrill  came  when  Louise  Van  Norman  floated  in,  Madonna-like  in  her 
pale  blue  gown  with  a  scarf  that  made  classic  drapery,  and  seated  at  the  piano 
played  for  our  morning  hymn.  She  was  instantly  the  embodiment  of  Music  to 
my  adoring  glance.  Fair  as  a  lily,  with  wavy  golden  hair  growing  very  low,  her 
complexion  of  creamy  white,  rose-tinged,  had  the  rare  perfection  that  struck  one 
amazed;  for  it  was  a  beauty  of  bloom  that  rivalled  all  the  flowers  of  the  field  in 
delicacy  of  tint  and  preciousness  of  quality. 

That  perfection  of  loveliness,  I  afterwards  learned,  was  thoroughly  appreciated 
and  carefully  preserved — no  butter — no  coffee — no  sweets,  the  simplest  diet,  and 
regular  exercise,  and  if  a  pimple  ever  appeared,  proper  remedies  were  immediately 
applied,  and  more  self-denial  enforced.  The  result  certainly  paid  for  the  sacrifice, 
although  she  declared  it  was  none,  since  she  cared  nothing  for  rich  food  and  craved 
no  special  indulgence,  whatever  others  claimed.  She  was  unique  to  my  astonished 
and  admiring  eyes,  her  classic  features  and  grace  of  movement,  set  her  upon  the 
pedestal  she  adorned  for  long  in  my  Pantheon.  She  always  made  me  think  of  an 
engraving,  very  popular  at  that  time,  of  "Evangeline". 

As  we  only  saw  Louise  at  morning  prayers,  unless  going  in  or  out,  when  I  used 
to  hang  over  the  banisters  for  a  look,  I  occupied  myself  during  the  Scripture  lesson 
and  prayer  staring  in  delight  at  her  bent  head  and  fascinating  profile,  while  her 
Father  droned  on  haranguing  the  Almighty.  That  fair  daughter  of  his  house  was 
an  asset  to  charm  the  girls  to  silence,  and  the  well-behaved  school  preserved 
conventional  quiet  and  reverential  posture  as  far  from  true  devotion  as  if  they  were 
openly  boisterous  and  rebellious. 

In  the  attentive  silence  of  that  first  morning,  I  whispered  excitedly  to  a  tall 
dark-eyed  girl  in  the  desk  beside  me,  "Oh!  Isn't  she  a  wonder?"  "Yes,  she's 
up  to  the  picture — Only  appears  to  the  public  eye  once  a  day"  was  the  whispered 
response  with  a  sympathetic  smile  that  quite  won  my  heart.  It  only  took  a  small 
amount  of  imagination  to  arouse  my  interest,  emotions  being  spectacular  rather 
than  real  and  as  such  were  generally  transitory  and  shallow. 

I  soon  found  that  it  war  an  admiration  of  silences  when  with  Louise,  for  with  her 
conversation  limped,  and  sentiment  alone  led.  But  Gussie  McClintock  made  of 
all  the  girls,  the  most  decided  and  lasting  impression.  The  sympathetic  under- 
standing in  her  smile  won  me  at  once,  and  there  was  soon  aroused  a  deepening 
admiration  for  her  ability  as  well  as  appearance.  She  stood  very  high  in  her 
classes;  but  brilliant  mentality  did  not  militiate  against  kindliness;  she  was  at- 
tractive and  responsive  and  stately  to  my  fancy.  It  was  a  happy  chance  that 
placed  me  near  her,  and  the  same  gentle  good-morning  was  given  to  the  new  and 
apparently  insignificant  Chicagoan  as  to  the  most  regnant  of  the  haughtily  satisfied 
New  Yorkers. 

We  soon  became  friends.  I  was  asked  to  her  house,  the  pretty  Parsonage  of 
one  of  the  largest  Churches,  and  there  learned,  to  my  grief,  that  the  family  were 
preparing  to  leave  for  an  indefinite  stay  abroad,  as  the  eloquent  and  eminent 
Divine,  her  Father,  had  accepted  a  Call  to  the  American  Chapel  in  Paris. 

They  were  very  real  friends,  I  thought,  and  our  good-byes  were  to  me  very 
sorrowful.    "We'll  write  and  you  must  come  over"  was  Gussie's  consoling  farewell. 

I  was  comparatively  a  negligible  quantity  that  first  term.  My  room-mate, 
the  daughter  of  a  Bishop  and  very  clever,  had  gifts  for  leadership  which  made  her 
very  popular;  her  scholarship  was  unquestionable,  and  her  superiority  unquestion- 
ed;    She  was  three  years  my  senior  and  usually    \  I t\   tolerant  of  me. 

Our  gas  was  always  lighted  again  as  soon  as  the  watchful  teacher  had  made 
her  rounds  at  ten,  and  Florence  read,  wrote  or  studied  long  after  1  dropped  asleep. 
She  was  usually  kind,  hut  naturally  critical  and  sometimes  sharply  satirical,  and 
always  held  her  own  with  teachers  and  pupils  alike.  If  she  had  not  died  \oum; 
1   verily  believe  she  would   h.i\e  been  ;i  lis-hl   in  the  literary  world. 

She  laughed  good-naturedly  at  my  persistent  home-sickness,  the  expression 
of  which  was  proudl)  controlled  and  resen  ed  for  the  occasional  Bolitudeoi  mj  room. 
Several  t i im ■• ,  thinking  myself  alone  and  safe,  she  had  found  me  weeping  un- 
n   trainedly,  hue  buried  in  the  pillows,  <>n  the  bed  under  the  pink  mosquito-net, 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


which  protected  us  from  the  singing  pests  that  in  late  Fall  took  possession.  It  was 
a  ridiculous  picture  as  in  years  after  she  described  it. 

One  day  she  ended  finally  those  fits  of  despair — lifting  the  folds  that  dropped 
about  the  bed,  she  looked  at  me  quizzically!  I  did  not  feel  contempt,  but  the 
disapproval  was  most  marked. 

"You'll  never  be  worth  anything  if  you  indulge  yourself  this  way.  What's 
the  use  of  letting  yourself  go?  Haven't  you  sense  enough  to  know  you  can't  change 
conditions?  I  really  thought  you  were  too  proud  to  cry  like  a  baby  when  you 
have  chances  many  would  cry  for.    Nobody  gets  anywhere  that  whines." 

"I  don't  whine"  I  cried  in  angry  impetuosity.  "It  looks  like  it"  was  the  cool 
response,  and  gathering  up  her  books  she  added, "It's  no  use  to  expect  everything 
you  want,  or  that  everybody  is  going  to  dance  attendance, — for  Heaven's  sake, 
be  something  more  than  a  spoilt  child  at  your  age." 

And  that  vigorous  presentation  did  its  work.  I  continued  highly  romantic, 
and  was  usually  carrying  on  some  thrilling  affair  in  fancy,  but  gained  in  coolness 
of  vision  which  is  usually  the  other  side  of  romanticism. 

My  room-mate  never  conducted  things  on  picturesque  or  impossible  lines. 
She  was  practical,  different  from  all  others  I  knew,  allowed  herself  no  heavy  in- 
dulgences of  any  sort;  was  sharp  in  making  jokes  and  quotations,  and  puzzled 
her  class-mates  who  never  knew  how  to  do  it.  She  was  ruthlessly  in  earnest,  and 
in  strength,  superiority,  and  sarcasm  kept  the  others  to  heel.  She  had  the  deferred 
emotions  of  her  type,  and  as  permanent  interest  was  in  her  studies,  she  swept 
on  from  triumph  to  triumph  in  our  midst,  with  always  an  air  of  calm  indifference. 

It  gave  me  many  a  vicarious  thrill  that  was  never  acknowledged  in  words, 
for  mine  was  an  inarticulate  intensity  of  respectful  admiration. 

In  the  small  hall-bedroom  adjoining  us  was  the  one  boarder  I  envied — pretty, 
sparkling,  saucy  Carrie  Sims — dazzlingly  recognizable  as  temperamental,  and 
able  to  give  lessons  in  allurements,  and  where  lovers  were  concerned  she  was  very 
useful;  men  were  merely  something  that  fell  in  love  with  you;  delicate,  passionate 
and  mirthful,  she  gave  me  the  greatest  possible  pleasure  in  deliberately  choosing 
me  for  comrade  and  intimate. 

She  counseled  me  to  the  effect  that,  when  a  boy  was  wild  over  you,  you  felt 
vaguely  right  with  yourself,  because  you  could  forget  school,  and  get  a  superlative 
satisfaction  over  receiving  your  dues  from  the  other  sex. 

It  was  a  bright,  but  dimly  visaged  place  to  me,  where  lovers  dwelt,  but  she 
painted  it  vividly,  and  behind  the  tremendous  curtain  of  reality  it  glimmered  in 
my  mind  for  long.  I  loved  the  pageantry  of  it.  At  first,  I  even  loved  her  arrogance. 
She  was  a  born  coquette,  and  in  secret  or  public,  quite  genuine  as  the  object  of 
"crushes"  in  quantity  from  various  boys  of  whom  she  told  me.  She  carried  herself 
like  a  little  Queen,  her  joys  in  "love  affairs"  began  very  early — and  at  sixteen 
she  was  past-mistress  in  the  art  of  attraction.  She  always  had  her  own  way,  and 
insisted  on  social  supremacy.  People  who  want  their  own  way,  enough  to  bend  all 
energies  and  forget  all  others  to  get  it,  have  a  wonderful  advantage  over  those  who 
shrink  from  contests  or  hate  getting  messed  up,  and  shaken  up  by  the  earthquakes 
of  dissension,  and  the  rumbling  and  wrecking  equivalent  to  fighting. 

Carrie  had  a  wealth  of  golden-brown  hair,  it  was  short  and  fluffed,  and  her 
dancing  grey  eyes  and  laughing  mouth  told  stories  as  glowing  as  herself.  That 
highly  coloured  face  beamed  rapturously  when  you  did  not  question  or  deny, 
and  it  was  pitilessly  useless  to  struggle  against  her  charm.  Merriment  and  good 
times  and  an  adoration  was  what  she  claimed  and  secured. 

Our  alliance  was  friendly,  and  it  was  her  week-ends  at  home  that  stirred  me  to 
such  longing.  I  waited  every  Monday  morning  to  hear  reports  of  marvellous 
experiences,  and  the  happy  and  wonderful  periods  with  her  lively  and  noted  family. 
Oh!  If  only  I  too  could  get  home  over  Sunday  I  thought,  as  I  listened  to  such 
vivid  accounts  of  adventures  and  engagements,  as  yet  wholly  outside  my  horizon. 

The  great  event  of  the  early  winter,  was  the  projected  fancy-dress  party  the 
Boarding  School  was  allowed  to  give.  I  merged  myself  at  first  in  its  gossip  and 
preparations,  listening  eagerly  as  I  heard  discussions  of  characters  and  costumes, 


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and  plans  for  adornment  mutually  whispered  over,  but  I  finally  awoke  to  the  fact 
that  I  was  not  included  in  any  group.  It  was  the  first  Fancy-dress  affair  I  had 
either  ever  heard  of,  outside  of  books,  or  participated  in,  and  someway  I  soon 
began  to  feel  ignored  and  neglected. 

Nobody  cared  to  give  me  a  single  suggestion,  each  girl  seemed  to  have  secrets, 
and  a  circle  that  made  her  enthusiastically  eager  to  secure  as  many  guests  as 
possible.  The  invitations  properly  engraved,  were  issued  in  numbers  as  demanded, 
and  as  I  had  no  need  of  them  I  seemed  wholly  out  of  it. 

Later,  when  I  timidly  inquired  of  my  popular  room-mate  what  I  could  wear, 
the  blunt  response  shut  me  up  immediately.  "I  don't  know  or  care  a  thing  about 
it — Catch  me  making  a  fool  of  myself  and  spending  money — I'm  not  going  to  dress 
— I'll  look  on  and  laugh  at  the  rest."  Florence  was  privileged  beyond  all  others, 
as  the  oldest  and  cleverest,  no  one  ever  called  her  to  task.  The  waters  rolled  back 
at  her  rebuff.  I  was  not  hurt  to  any  profound  extent,  what  she  had  said  was  not 
aimed  at  me  I  knew,  but  I  was  suddenly  and  consciously  alone  with  no  one  to  help 
me.  I  felt  hot,  indignant  and  defiant.  It  seemed  nobody's  business  what  I  did — 
"Each  for  himself  and  the  Devil  take  the  hindermost."  I,  as  hindermost,  did  not 
propose  to  be  either  gobbled  up  or  crushed  out;  /  would  be  in  it,  regardless  of  a 
whole  school  or  city  full  of  indifferent  human  beings,  and  decided  I  did  not  need 
assistance  in  making  decisions  or  selections. 

So  I  thought  out,  more  and  more  calmly,  how  to  accomplish  that  end.  I  knew 
that  somewhere  costumes  must  be  made  and  sold.  I  looked  at  the  papers,  studied 
advertisements,  wrote  down  addresses,  and  laid  my  plans  regardless  of  all  the 
world;  and  without  open  tremors  or  any  hesitation,  I  asked  one  afternoon  for  a 
Chaperon  to  shop  for  necessities. 

With  one  of  the  younger  teachers  I  sallied  forth  to  visit  an  advertised  Costumer 
with  plenty  of  Theatrical  properties.  I  revelled  in  what  was  displayed,  but  wisely 
shrank  from  assuming  the  royal  robes  urged  upon  me.  "Oh  yes,  you  could  look 
a  Queen"  smirked  the  salesman.  "You  have  distinction  enough  for  Cleopatra, 
or  any  great  character"  lied  the  proprietor  of  all  that  glory,  as  he  sized  us  up 
ironically;  but  a  modicum  of  common  sense  helped  me  to  turn  from  the  great 
costumes  of  the  great  Heroines  of  History,  and  self-respect  selected  a  more  modest 
costume.  The  picturesque  dress  of  "The  Daughter  of  the  Regiment"  seized  my 
fancy,  was  rented  for  the  day  and  evening  in  question,  and  feeling  as  if  I  had 
resisted  temptation,  I  calmly  gave  name  and  address,  deposited  the  five  dollars 
demanded,  and  very  loftily  offered  the  assurance,  that  the  other  five  would  be 
paid  when  the  goods  were  sent. 

I  had  used  all  the  money  in  my  purse,  and  I  remember  well  the  teacher  looked 
rather  admiringly,  as,  without  question,  I  stopped  at  the  Telegraph  Office  on  the 
way  back,  to  wire  request  for  funds,  deliberately  adding — "Money  is  necessary 
without  delay,  will  write  explanation  later,"  which  incident  I  detail  merely  to  prove 
a  growing  independence  of  action,  as  well  as  thought.  Proudly  successful,  I  had 
concluded  that  as  no  one  in  all  that  household  was  sufficiently  interested  to  ask 
or  to  care  what  I  wore,  I  tried,  as  the  few  days  of  interregnum  wore  on,  to  assure 
myself  I  did  not  care  either. 

But  I  shall  never  forget  the  thrill  of  sudden  delight  that  made  the  blood  rush 
to  my  face,  and  quickened  every  pulse,  when  Carrie  Sinims  beckoned  me  mys- 
teriously into  her  room,  and  excitedly  declared  "Nobody  shall  know  what  1  am 
going  to  be,  but  I'll  tell  you,-I'vc  got  it  made  at  home,  the  loveliest  French  Peasant 

Mime  you  ever  saw,  Oh!  I  tell  you  it's  becoming  Even  Mother  said  1  looked 
beautiful  I'm  going  to  act  as  Flower  Girl,  ami  carry  the  loveliest  basket  ami 
wreaths,  And  Oh  my!  you'll  all  be  surprised — My  sisters  are  coming,  and  they 
are  si  unning." 

And  sure  enough,  on  the  eagerly  anticipated  evening,  there  Came  a  moment 
that    made  it   seem  as  il   the  world   had  stopped  to  take  breath?     When  Mary  and 

Eliza  Simms  iwept  into  thai  amateui  assembly  as  Pocahontas  and  Sappho,  bj 
itidden  comparison  with  all  the  others,  thej  represented  professionals  in  beaut} 
and  high  artistry  among  a  lot  oi  caricaturists. 


■ 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


Mary  was  superb  in  full  Indian  panoply,  her  long  hair  braided  with  wampum 
fell  to  her  knees,  and  every  detail  of  the  Indian  costume  suited  her  splendid  brunette 
type,  as  she  marched  haughtily  through  the  rooms,  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes.  But 
Eliza,  fair  and  wonderful  in  white  cashmere,  with  bands  of  gold  in  Greek-Key 
pattern,  bracelets  and  anklets,  and  classic  clinging  folds,  was  too  adorably  a  Princess 
to  allow  even  a  word;  for  my  heart  beat  fast  in  passionate  delight  over  a  realized 
vision  of  dreams. 

When  Carrie  said  casually  "Come  and  speak  to  Nina  Lunt,  she's  my  best 
chum,"  I  fairly  choked;  all  my  pulses  were  fluttering  with  an  intense  admiration 
and  unutterable  longing  for  sisters— sisters  like  Carrie's!  Mary  gave  me  a  stolid 
stare  as  became  her  character  of  the  haughty  Indian  Pocahontas,  and  moved  on 
without  a  word,  but  Carrie  said,  afterward, — "Sister  Mary  spotted  your  dress 
at  once — said  it  was  about  the  best  of  the  lot — but  that  you  didn't  fit  in,  you 
weren't  saucy  enough,  and  you  didn't  use  your  drum." 

I  minded  nothing  of  that  criticism  for  I  didn't  feel  at  home  in  the  character, 
and  Eliza,  who  had  stopped  for  a  kind  word  told  me,  I  "looked  very  pretty"  and 
smiled  approvingly.  Days  and  weeks  after  that  memorable  evening,  I  felt  the 
fascination  of  those  beautiful  eyes,  as  beautiful  now  in  age,  as  they  were  in  her 
glorious  youth. 

It  was  not  long  after,  that  hurrying  through  the  hall,  passing  the  Principal's 
Office,  I  heard  his  unctuous  voice  and  my  name. — "Yes — a  bright  girl,  we  like  her, 
but  fear  she  is  going  to  lose  her  eyesight."  The  last  horrible  prophecy  in  the  same 
smooth  oily  voice,  that  urged  us  daily  to  follow  the  promised  road  to  perfection, 
and  implied  its  possibility  if  we  continued  under  his  jurisdiction!  That  bland 
statement,  which  shut  me  into  darkness,  rolled  in  upon  my  amazed  and  horror- 
stricken  soul,  and,  to  my  thought,  must  be  based  upon  the  confirmed  diagnosis 
of  the  distinguished  Occulist,  that  a  temporary  weakness  had  forced  me  to  consult. 
An  inflammation  had  followed  his  drastic  treatment,  necessitating  a  reduction  of 
work,  and  now  there  rushed  upon  me  the  appalling  threat  of  blindness. 

I  had  no  power  to  reason,  the  awful  fears  that  swept  over  me  made  for  ac- 
ceptance, and  I  fled  wildly  upstairs,  threw  myself  down  in  utter  despair  and  gave 
my  eyes  cause  for  further  inflammation. 

"What  on  earth's  the  matter,"  asked  my  confused  room-mate,  finding  me  in 
such  an  abandonment  of  grief.  "Oh! — They  say  I'm  going  blind,"  I  sobbed  in 
an  abject  misery  that  compelled  her  instant  sympathy,  and  she  actually  put  her 
arms  about  me. 

"Now  Neanie  listen — That  fool  of  a  Doctor  may  have  said  something,  and  our 
big  Gas-bag  loves  to  hear  himself  talk;  You're  frightened,  stop  crying,  and  don't 
believe  it,  they  are  a  parcel  of  fools  anyway." 

Florence,  it  seems,  had  heard  the  rumour,  felt  somewhat  apprehensive;  and 
knowing  my  family,  her  instant  advice  was  to  the  point.  "Why  don't  you  go  right 
home?  What's  the  use  of  staying  here,  anyway,  when  you  only  moon  around  with 
weak  eyes?  If  old  Van  Norman  believes  what  he  says,  he's  criminal  not  to  tell 
your  parents."  And  in  consequence  at  her  dictation  a  telegram  was  sent  privately 
to  Chicago.    It  brought  instant  response,  and  the  order  I  yearned  for. 

I  turned  my  back  gladly  at  the  end  of  that  mid-year,  and  all  apprehension  was 
allayed  and  confidence  regained  in  the  midst  of  the  excitement  I  found  at  home. 
It  seems  I  was  to  have  been  sent  for  in  a  month's  time  anyway,  as  my  Aunt 
Elizabeth  wished  me  to  be  "Maid  of  Honour"  at  her  wedding,  and  those  prepara- 
tions were  far  too  absorbing  to  dwell  on  small  aches  and  pains,  which  my  Mother 
never  believed  in  emphasizing.  My  eyes  were  pronounced  normal,  only  over- 
strained and  tired.  I  forgot  them  myself  in  the  tumult  and  excitement  of  last 
preparations.  It  was  a  festal  time  indeed — of  breathless  interest  to  me.  Grand- 
father's death  had  reduced  the  style  of  living  at  the  Homestead,  and  my  Mother's 
younger  sisters  were,  in  turn,  both  married  in  our  house. 

The  great  evening  came,  and  it  was  a  gay  wedding  party;  the  solemn  service; 
the  large  reception;  the  sumptous  supper;  and  the  shining  loveliness  of  the  Bride. 
She  was  very  beautiful  in  white  satin  and  laces,  and  wore  the  pearls  the  devoted 


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Groom  had  given.  She  stood,  so  slight  and  tall,  and  the  long  lace  veil  added 
mysterious  charm  to  figure  and  face.  Her  beauty  thrilled  me  as  I  stood  close 
beside  her  in  prideful  possession  of  kinship,  yet  not  forgetting  my  own  part  in 
it  all. 

That  shimmering  white  dress  of  mine,  trimmed  with  Lillies-of-the- Valley,  low 
necked  and  short  sleeved,  with  a  veil  to  the  shoulders,  and  my  lovely  bouquet 
differing  in  choice  from  the  other  Bridesmaids,  filled  my  idea  of  picturesque  splend- 
our of  raiment,  and  had  given  me  rapturous  satisfaction  when  I  regarded  my 
own  image  in  the  glass. 

But  at  Grandmother's  exclamation,  as  I  joined  the  group  before  we  passed  in, 
"Why  Neanie!  You  have  beautiful  arms  and  neck,"  my  cup  overflowed.  "How 
lightly  sits  my  bosom's  Lord,"  if  not  in  words  yet  fully  it  expressed  the  moment's 
ecstasy.  Just  as  before  the  hapless  Romeo  met  his  devastating  blow,  so  was  I 
also  to  be  felled  to  earth  before  the  evening's  close! 

Who  can  measure  the  service  rendered  or  the  harm  caused  to  one  possessed 
of  refinement  of  feeling,  who,  groping  for  the  significance  of  Life,  hears  accidentally 
adverse  opinions  as  to  any,  or  all,  personal  charms;  driving  one  harshly  back  to 
the  common  type  of  the  unattractive  in  an  hourthat  had  promised  some  achievement 
of  social  success. 

Whether  a  little  decent  humility  was  needed  on  that  occasion  of  my  first 
introduction  to  the  gay  world  or  not,  it  was  certainly  decreed  for  my  benefit. 

The  whole  house  had  been  a  suitable  setting  for  the  radiant  Bride;  those  gleam- 
ing eyes,  that  perfect  figure,  the  beautiful  smile  and  face  so  full  of  life,  were  all 
consummate  in  fascination,  and  my  joy  was  unalloyed  in  its  sense  of  possession, 
as  I  gazed  in  enchanted  delight  at  the  adorable  central  figure,  and  felt  kindled  by 
a  pride  that  knew  no  bounds. 

When  she  slipped  through  the  crowd  I  started  to  follow,  that  I  might  assist 
in  the  change  from  Bridal  to  Travelling  costume.  It  was  foredoomed  that  I  should 
never  reach  her,  even  to  say  good-bye,  which  she  could  not  have  missed  in  the  gay 
good  wishes  and  hilarious  accompaniment  of  her  farewells. 

Sheltered  behind  one  of  the  drawing-room  doors,  a  kindly  protesting  voice, 
using  my  name,  had  given  me  sudden  pause.  I  was  fluttered  with  unfathomable 
satisfaction  over  Mr.  Chandler's  adjectives.  As  one  of  my  Aunt  Elizabeth's 
train  of  adorers,  he  had  been  often  in  sight  and  hearing  during  my  former  vacations, 
and  he  spoke  of  me  now  as  "clever  and  promising".  But  the  popular  son  of  one  of 
Chicago's  leading  families,  who  always  glistened  with  pride  and  a  sense  of  his  own 
superiority,  was  putting  the  young  pretender  in  her  place!  It  is  a  tremendous 
power  a  man  wields  when  there  is  danger  of  his  hasty  words  being  accepted  as 
infallible  judgment.  And  to  think  oneself  unpardonably  unattractive,  batters 
all  the  bridges  down  and  submerges  one  in  bottom  lands  of  humiliation. 

"An  entertaining  little  cuss  perhaps,  but  no  smart  school-girls  for  me.  She  is 
no  looker,  and  I  don't  care  for  that  sort;  women  must  have  beauty  to  be  worth 
while.    You  can't  say  she  wasn't  a  good  foil  tonight  for  that  stunning  Aunt." 

The  shock  to  my  nerves  made  for  a  stunning  helplessness.  Those  unguarded 
statements  caught  at  my  breath.  There  was  no  glint  of  pride  left  in  me;  1  felt 
visibly  torn  as  if  in  some  staggeringly  bad  dream. 

I  slipped  safely  out  of  hearing,  ami  I  could  not  have  cried  openly  as  1  lied  to 
my  upper  room.  I  only  tried,  as  the  d<>or  closed  behind  me,  to  smother  a  shriek. 
Il  was  isolation  again  like  the  crushing  despair  when  Grandmother  introduced 
iih    i,,   Aria. 

I    remember   this   momeni    how    1    looked,   as    I    Bat,    hands   pressed   against    hot 

cheeks,  bending  to  study  the  mirrored  reflection  thai  glanced  back  at  me.  The 
distressed  face,  ordinarily  round  and  plump  looking,  had  suddenly  grown  sharp- 
featured,  and  with  vision  half  blurred,  I  leaned  forward  questioningly     "It's  no 

ii  i  no  ii  e,  Vou'll  never  l>e  good-lookim-  Whal  can  \  on  do  aboul  it?  What 
Can    \"U  do'',    for   I    found   myself  talking  audibly.      A  sick   hopelessness  Hooding  in, 

wa\  e  after  w  a^  e. 

The    room    fell    airli        and    dn   i\    as    I    hacked    away    from    the    pale    reflection, 


I 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


and  something  began  to  drip  down  my  face,  something  wet  that  I  did  not  recognize 
at  first.  I  saw  myself,  mouth  opening  and  shutting,  repeating — "What  shall  I  do 
about  it?  What  shall  I  do?  And  out  of  my  unmanageable  mind  came  self-scorn. 
No  one  must  know  about  it;  nobody  shall  know  I  heard  it.  Grandfather  said  I 
"Wasn't  half  bad".  Mother  said  "It  didn't  make  much  difference  if  people 
loved  you",  and  a  strange  sympathy  and  passionate  purpose  began  to  sweep 
over  me.  I  must  be  something — I  must,  I  must;  and  in  a  sort  of  shrill  reciting 
to  myself,  the  truth  surged  over  me,  very  real,  very  certain  now,  that  control 
and  conquest  and  unshaken  determination  was  necessary  to  self-respect.  I  will 
do  something,  I  will  be  something;  /  will,  I  will. 

And  suddenly  the  summing  up  appeared  as  individual  criticism,  merely  handed 
out  as  a  matter  of  course  to  be  conceded  or  ignored.  Whether  born  in  the  purple 
like  my  Aunt,  or  as  a  "good  foil"  for  her  beauty,  no  one  should  ever  know  that 
I  cared. 

And  later,  to  the  very  two  I  had  overheard,  who  drew  near  for  last  compliments, 
I  made  stumbling  attempts  to  be  conversational,  and  in  stiff  little  phrases  to  conceal 
my  excitement.  But  deliberately  I  ignored  the  extended  hand  of  the  one,  who 
"had  no  use  for  school-girls"  and  had  named  me — "The  Foil".  I  felt  a  sudden 
temper  rise  in  me  like  a  hurricane,  as  he  was  smoothly  declaring  his  purpose  to 
make  effort  to  call  soon,  and  secure  the  desired  pleasure  of  further  acquaintance. 

A  little  shudder  swept  over  me,  and  I  heard  my  voice  raised  in  sharply  flippant 
rejoiners.  "Quite  unnecessary,  quite  unnecessary — spare  yourself  such  efforts"— 
and  at  his  startled  stare — "It's  school,  not  society  for  me;  happily  it  will  be  a  full 
year  or  more,  before  I  shall  need  to  make  further  claims  on  the  courtesy  of  my 
Aunt's  admirers." 

I  did  not  put  my  head  down,  I  did  not  drop  my  eyes,  I  looked  straight  at, 
straight  through  him,  as  he  backed  away  incredulous  and  amazed.  "And  then," 
broke  in  Mr.  Chandler,  the  understanding  grasp  of  whose  hand  made  my  eyelids 
hot  again.  "And  then,  when  you  do  come  back  to  us,  you  will  find  that  you  have 
inherited  your  Aunt's  friends." 

That  instant  comprehension  made  the  situation  less  tense;  the  hurt  was  salved 
and  never  became  articulate;  the  wound  to  pride  was  successfully  masked. 

The  convulsive  shock  with  its  chilling  personal  meaning  and  piercing  significance 
soon  passed.    I  was  in  harmony  with  my  own  surroundings. 

There  was  some  evidence  of  a  growth  of  philosophy,  the  kind  that  while  not 
rejecting  the  appearances  counts  them  of  less  value.  Its  doctrine  being  briefly 
that  beauty  in  itself  brings  no  sure  happiness — that  we  have  to  value  things  ac- 
cording to  the  quantity  and  intensity  of  our  feelings,  purposes,  and  experiences. 

I  had  a  vague  desire  for  something  that  represented  the  moral  valuations  as 
well  as  the  esthetic — I  aimed  somewhat  consciously  at  a  certain  lofty  point  of  view, 
and  I  think  there  was  decided  danger  of  my  becoming  a  bit  of  a  -poseur.  I  pos- 
sessed a  certain  amount  of  taste  of  a  certain  kind,  together  with  a  lot  of  old- 
fashioned  romantic  ideas  and  ideals  which  I  could  not  attempt  to  regulate. 

For  a  time,  however,  that  castic  and  freely  expressed  opinion  of  my  personal 
lack  of  all  feminine  allure,  because  of  criticised  physical  defects,  would  not  allow 
me  to  discard  wholly  my  futile  longings,  or  to  lessen  the  sense  of  probably  intoler- 
able loss  as  regarded  my  future  condition  and  prospects. 

But  the  things  that  pleased  me  most  were  filling  my  life.  I  was  becoming 
more  definitely  immune.  The  world  had  in  it  a  blessed  friendliness,  and  Life  was 
again  bountiful  of  material  advantages. 

THE    FAVORING    WINDS 

From  the  very  earliest  remembrance  since  the  night  I  learned  its  meaning, 
and  realized  its  blessed  message  to  young  and  old;  since  my  Father  told  me  in 
such  tender  words  the  story  of  the  Manger,  of  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  that  guides 
wisdom  to  its  source;  the  panacea  for  all  evil  in  "Peace  on  Earth,  Good-will  to 
Men",  I  have  loved  Christmas  beyond  words.     It  became  the  climax  of  the  year, 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


with  everywhere  symbols  in  the  Heavens  and  on  the  Earth  of  that  majestic  cele- 
bration of  the  Saviour's  Birth.  Oh!  the  joy  and  glamour  and  lovely  import  of  that 
day!  The  fulfillment  of  the  gift  of  Life  to  those  who  believe,  the  shining  of  its  own 
unfading  Star,  the  hope  and  promise  of  Life  Everlasting. 

To  my  Father  it  was  always  a  religious  festival,  his  devotion  and  large  hearted- 
ness  celebrated  the  Birthday  of  our  Lord  in  simplicity  of  real  worship,  yet  working 
and  planning  for  us  all,  in  the  rejoicing  that  comes  with  thinking  for  others. 

The  Christmas  of  my  Father  was  like  the  gladdening  of  the  hearts  of  the  world. 
It  was  more  than  feating  and  happy  exchange  of  gifts.  It  was  wonderful  in  a  sort 
of  rythmic  music,  that  gave  me  tense  excitement  in  preparation  and  fulfillment; 
the  idea  always  of  a  vast  festival  that  prevailed  over  the  whole  earth  gladdening 
the  hearts  of  men. 

Life's  illusions  can  never  pass  when  in  the  day's  routine  there  is  always  rejoicing 
in  what  one  can  give  and  do,  receive  and  enjoy;  no  harsjiness,  no  bitterness,  no 
austerity,  no  chilliness  in  charity,  no  sternness  in  word  or  look,  only  love,  kind- 
ness and  pleasure;  a  welding  of  home-life  that  forever  answered  to  our  family 
the  Moslem's  greeting, — "God  grant  Thee  Peace". 

Largely  on  my  horizon  for  Christmas,  following  swiftly  upon  my  Aunt's  wed- 
ding, loomed  the  arrival  of  my  little  brothers,  and  their  growth  and  brightness, 
and  to  me,  beauty,  established  between  us  a  sort  of  fighting  fraternity. 

There  is  an  instinct  between  those  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood  that  no  one  can 
argue  down,  and  when  I  first  laid  eyes  on  them  again,  I  felt  a  sort  of  bewitchment 
and  the  struggling  of  the  new  sense  of  responsibility.  The  warmth  of  their  wel- 
come each  vacation  burnt  itself  into  my  memory.  I  wanted  to  fling  open  every 
door  in  me,  tightly  sealed  before,  in  our  interchanges.  Emotions  and  sentimental 
reasons  made  me  at  first  want  them  constantly  in  view.  It  was  a  fortnight  of 
great  happiness,  and  the  perfection  of  those  holiday  hours  was  like  light  itself 
with  no  shadows  to  break  the  spell. 

I  can  see  them  now,  standing  in  such  an  intensity  of  delight,  under  the  tree 
surmounted  by  its  Star  and  flying  Angel.  Holly  wreaths,  flowers  abundant,  gifts 
and  goodies,  and  such  benefactions  as  belong  alone  to  Christmas.  We  laughed 
as  if  it  were  a  new  sight  to  see  old  Biddy's  cap,  with  its  streaming  ribbons  hanging 
high,  and  to  hear  the  usual  outcry,  "Glory  be  to  God,  Will  ye's  look  at  me  grand 
cap?"  and  that  devoted  "Queen  of  the  Kitchen"  addressed  me  now,  thankfully 
and  respectfully,  as  "Miss  O'Lunt"  as,  since  my  return  from  that  brief  three 
months  in  New  York,  which,  in  her  view,  added  largely  to  age  and  dignity,  the 
importance  of  that  initial  in  my  Father's  name  belonged  to  each  member  of  the 
family  now  as  indicative  of  our  high  station;  it  was  Miss  O'Lunt,  Mr.  Horace 
O'Lunt,  Mr.  George  O'Lunt  for  evermore. 

It  was  dear  of  my  Father  that  Winter  to  offer  to  teach  me  to  skate.  That 
graciousness  of  generosity  in  time  and  patience  seemed  beyond  price.  Oh  Love! 
Love  that  does  not  tire  itself  in  giving;  that  knows  no  exhaustion,  ever  eminating 
as  a  fresh  spring  from  the  parental  heart.  Can  there  be  higher  or  holier  things 
than  that  which  is  daily  inspired  by  tenderness  of  bestowment,  that  coming  from 
the  depths  forever  strives  to  give  children  comfort  and  cheer  and  courage?  For 
me  there  has  never  been  necessity  of  going  to  Heaven.  It  has  not  been  hard  to 
make  a  Christmas,  not  of  the  day,  but  of  every  day  throughout  the  year. 

I  think  I  was  the  first  girl  in  Chicago  to  go  out  on  the  ice.  My  Father  was 
expert,  and  it  did  not  take  long  for  me  to  feel  at  ease  and  exult  in  that  swift  in- 
describable grace  of  motion.  And  our  example  was  speedily  followed  by  a  neigh- 
bour and  friend  of  my  own  age  with  her  Father.  My  relations  had  been  affectionate, 
even  at   limes  intimate,  with  Jessie  Bross,  whom   1   had  known  for  yean  back. 

II  challenged  considerable  comment  at   fust  to  see  Orrington  bunt  and  William 

Hmss  with  their  daughters  among  all  those  skating  men  and  boys,  but  there  was 

ii"  unkind  criticism,  and  our  careful  Fathers  were  always  with  us.  and  gave  small 
liberi  v  to  Veni  lire  far  on  t  he  icy  fields.    The  bake  was  fro/en  smooth  lor  a  distance, 

but  although  we  gained  in  skill  and  confidence,  we  were  not  taken  much  beyond 
Mi--  Break-water,  however  tempting  the  Bhining  surface. 

Pau  88 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


It  was  a  white  Winter,  and  a  Winter  fiercely  cold.  The  stillness,  the  absolute 
silence  of  the  Lake  hushed  for  weeks  under  its  icy  shroud,  the  glitter  on  that  spotless 
mirror  of  ice,  and  my  growing  fearlessness  and  exhiliration,  tempted  to  adventure. 

One  never  to  be  forgotten  afternoon,  Henry  Cook,  the  tall  well  set  up  and  sandy- 
haired  son  of  one  of  my  Father's  special  friends,  who  had  often  joined  us,  breezed 
in  to  inquire  "Why  I  was  losing  such  a  splendid  chance  for  sport?"  On  learning 
Father's  engagements  had  not  permitted  leisure,  he  urged  my  going  forth  with  him. 
Securing  Mother's  rather  reluctant  consent  by  promising  watchful  care,  declaring 
that  I  "rivalled  most  of  the  boys,  and  for  that  matter  understood  well  how  to  be 
cautious." 

A  flame  of  spirit  in  me,  that  meant  immunity  from  cold  or  fatigue,  mounted 
high  as  we  started,  and  when  Henry  extended  his  hand,  and  we  slipped  out  of  the 
Break-water,  excitability  and  forgetfullness  of  all  warnings  was  aroused.  We 
swept  together  as  if  speeding  with  wings  through  space.  I  can  feel  that  glorious 
thrill  now  and  see  the  smile  of  approval  which  flattered  and  urged  me  on. 

I  had  no  realization  of  time,  the  world  to  far  horizons  looked  a  silvery  sheet  of 
ice  as  the  voices  of  the  skaters  behind  us  grew  distant.  All  suddenly  a  darker 
stretch  before  us,  a  change  of  colour  caught  my  eye  and  breath,  and  at  that 
menacing  second  a  boy  dashed  by  us — and  dashed  in.  The  treacherous  spot  of 
thin  surface  gave  way  so  instantly  that  the  water  crept  toward  us. 

But  I  heard  above  the  buzzing  in  my  ears  and  the  shock  to  vision,  a  loud  cry 
of  command  "Back — Back — Go  Back — Quick,  Quick," — and  instinctively  I 
obeyed.  To  my  last  breath  I  can  never  forget  the  awful  terror  on  that  blanched 
face  when  the  boy  came  up — livid — dreadful;  such  fright  and  despair  as  he  clutched 
the  edges  of  ice  that  gave  way  and  gave  no  hold. 

The  quickness  of  action  that  thought  not  of  self  and  would  not  yield  to  the 
inevitable  was  to  Henry  Cook's  lasting  credit.  He  saved  that  young  life  while 
imperatively  ordering  me  back  to  safety.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation  he 
stretched  himself  full  length,  most  of  his  body  on  solid  ice  behind  the  hole.  The 
coat  he  wore  had  been  torn  off  and  was  thrown  to  the  sinking  skater.  The  boy 
managed  to  grasp  the  safety  rope  and  was  pulled  from  that  strangling  death. 

A  boy  about  twelve,  I  should  judge,  who  lay  as  if  wholly  dazed  after  being 
dragged  a  distance.  Then  while  Henry  bent  over  him,  making  inquiries  that  he 
could  not  answer,  between  choking  gasps  and  sobs,  he  sprang  up  shaking,  dripping, 
staring,  and  livid  in  paleness.  He  gave  us  a  wild  look,  and  without  a  word  dashed, 
all  drenched  and  silent,  for  the  distant  shore. 

"Didn't  he  thank  you  at  all"  I  asked,  as  Henry  shook  out  his  icy  coat.^  "Not 
a  word"  he  laughed  back,  "but  no  matter  for  that,  we  are  saved  from  getting  into 
the  papers,  he  doesn't  know  our  names,  any  more  than  we  do  his."  "  Don't  tremble 
so,"  he  added  kindly,  "you've  got  a  chill  and  so  have  I.  Now  for  home,  and  to  get 
something  hot." 

We  sped  to  the  shore,  I  was  shivering  like  one  who  has  taken  a  blow  on  her 
shield.  We  had  come  so  far.  The  amazing  stillness  caught  at  one's  heart  just 
as  if  the  whole  world  was  listening — listening  for  death  or  deliverance. 

The  only  course  to  insure  any  further  permission  to  be  escorted  anywhere, 
by  any  young  man,  was  to  preserve  my  own  counsel  about  either  danger  or  rescue. 
And  I  was  fully  confirmed  the  following  morning,  when  they  read  from  "The 
Tribune"  an  account  of  "some  boy  being  saved  from  drowning  by  an  unknown 
skater,"  with  warnings  to  the  adventurous  that  venturing  far  out  always  challenged 
disaster. 

"There  is  reason  for  caution  indeed,"  said  my  Father,  and  we  could  never  skate 
on  the  Lake  now  outside  the  breakwater. 

To  my  Mother's  summons,  one  evening  soon  after,  I  responded  with  that  feeling 
her  slightest  request  always  engendered.  My  Mother  was  never  indifferent  to 
any  calls  or  needs  in  her  household,  and  she  invariably  roused  in  me  some  con- 
sciousness that  made  me  want  to  love  and  serve.  There  was  no  wall  dividing 
me  from  human  beings  when  sympathy  disarmed  selfishness  and  there  was  no 
shadow  between  my  Mother  and  myself. 


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Now  the  sudden  illness  of  one  of  the  maids  demanded  certain  remedies.  "It 
was  late,  but  the  sleigh  would  be  ready,  there  was  no  one  else  to  send  swiftly,  and 
I  must  bring  back  the  medicine  without  loss  of  time." 

She  brought  my  grey  squirrel  cloak,  and  a  close  fitting  cap  of  fur  pulled  well 
down.  With  loving  directions  the  door  opened  and  I  stepped  into  the  night  of 
snow — white  everywhere  in  blazing  starlight. 

Masses  of  clouds  flew  before  the  icy  wind,  so  that  all  the  stars  seemed  rushing 
across  the  Heavens.  The  darkness  had  no  threat;  nature  incarnated  itself  in  that 
world  of  snow.  No  sound  in  the  sky  above  or  on  the  earth  below,  as  the  sleigh 
swung  into  that  hush  of  white  lying  spread — like  a  pall  of  peace — as  far  as  the  eye 
could  see.  The  spectacle  was  quite  different  from  anything  before,  even  in  imagina- 
tion. Overhead  blazed  the  constellations,  and  small  and  smiling  I  snuggled  with 
content  under  the  robes,  and  felt  foolishly  happy  like  one  escaped  from  a  house 
to  adventure  alone.  An  errand  at  that  hour  appealed  as  an  adventure,  and  chal- 
lenged one. 

As  I  entered  the  large  Drug  Store,  alight  and  warm,  blowing  in  from  the  harsh 
outside,  someone  arose  from  the  desk  in  a  distant  corner  of  the  store.  With  a  nod 
he  dismissed  the  sleepy  clerk  from  his  stand,  and  the  dark  shape  of  a  dark  man 
came  smilingly  forward. 

His  face  differed  from  any  familiar  before,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  me  had  a 
curious  piercing  quality.  He  was  large  featured,  with  drooping  mustache,  and 
rather  long  side  whiskers.  His  thick  curly  black  hair  was  parted  in  the  middle 
and  waved  back  from  a  low  narrow  brow.  He  looked  the  foreigner,  and  it  was 
natural  that  I  did  not  like  the  way  he  glanced  at  and  seemed  to  be  taking  me  in, 
neither  did  I  answer  as  readily  as  usual  to  his  brisk  tentative  questions. 

"A  cold  night  for  a  little  lady  to  be  out  alone!  I  hope  you  had  not  to  come  too 
far?"  This  hard  Winter  seems  to  make  the  world  seem  dead,"  he  added,  as 
for  sole  answer  I  made  my  request,  and  thought  him  long  in  getting  the  package 
ready. 

He  seemed  to  pretend  in  his  search,  and  the  voice  became  somewhat  veiled  and 
mellow,  as  he  gave  me  the  unsolicited  information,  that  his  home  was  in  England, 
that  he  had  not  been  long  in  this  country  and  "was  quite  on  fire  to  meet  some 
young  ladies."  "Were  you  ever  lonely?"  he  added, — "Oh!  where  is  my  purse?" 
I  interrupted,  hunting  a  bit  wildly,  and  thrown  into  sudden  consternation. 

He  fixed  a  gaze  full  of  meaning,  but  to  me  totally  unrecognizable,  as  he  replied 
with  a  sinister  smile, — "Don't  distress  yourself  unnecessarily — Money  is  not 
indispensable." 

"It  must  be  I  left  it  in  the  sleigh,  but  you  can  charge  it  to  my  Father,  Mr.  0. 
Lunt,  171  Michigan  Avenue,  it's  the  same  thing  anyway." 

The  change  in  look  and  manner  was  instantaneous;  he  handed  me  the  parcel 
and  said  in  totally  different  tones,  "Excuse  me  if  I  presume,  here  in  America, 
he  added  gently,  one  feels  homeless  and  lonely  without  friends;  I  never  dreamed 
Winter  could  be  so  mournful  and  yet  of  such  loveliness." 

The  Heavens  tumbled  their  magnificence  as  we  rushed  homeward.  The  stars 
were  bigger  and  more  golden  than  before,  and  for  the  first  time  I  had  heard  an 
appeal  from  a  stranger  for  sympathy. 

Out  of  that  bright  frosty  night  into  the  warmth  and  lights  of  homo,  I  found 
consternation,  caused  by  a  telegram  announcing  the  death  ol  Grandfather  Lunt, 
followed  in  a  few  hours  by  that  of  his  wife.  There  was  excitement  and  preparation 
for  my  Parents  immediate  journey  East. 

The  scene  I  had  experienced  faded  swiftly,  and  the  picture  was  blurred  and 
forgotten.      My    untutored    insight    Could   give   it    no   name,   and    in    the   haste   and 

excitemenl  of  their  departure  I  never  spoke  ol  it. 

The   return  of  the  wedded   pair  suited   my    Mother's  plans   to  have  them   with 
U     lor  a   while,  as  in  all  its  furnishings  their  lovely   home  was  not   quite  complete. 
And  thai   vrry  day  my  Aunt  Elizabeth  had  been  installed,  and  m\    Pa  rent  8  left  well 
.Mi    Bed  that    I  would  lie  protected,  and  the  house  run  on  its  usual  lines. 

Two  da]    afti  1  came  Bom<  thing  complete!]  astonishing,  in  the  shape  ol  a  floral 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


offering,  the  very  first  I  had  ever  received.  I  was  too  delighted  to  be  critical.  It 
was  a  large  bouquet,  with  a  large  Camelia  in  the  centre,  with  Forget-Me-Nots 
and  other  flowers  packed  tight  about  it,  all  set  in  green  leaves.  It  was  stiff  in  ar- 
rangement to  the  point  of  artificiality,  and  for  a  second  my  heart  beat  as  I  looked. 

There  was  no  card.  A  curious  thrill  of  hope  and  delight  swept  over  me.  Oh! 
could  it  be?  Could  he  have  sent  them? — My  dream  Prince — For  I  was  still  domin- 
ated by  that  force  of  passionate  idealism  within  me.  I  still  hugged  my  only  idol. 
He  was  ever  on  his  throne.    To  that  worship  I  was  consciously  faithful. 

It  was  then  the  year  before  the  War,  the  gathering  clouds  had  not  burst,  and 
how  could  the  young  know  that  conflict  and  destruction  and  death  were  so  im- 
minent. 

I  smile  as  these  old  emotions  stir  me  in  their  partial  return.  As  I  had  never 
been  caged  or  cramped  in  fact,  so  with  all  fancies,  sentimental  longings  and  baseless 
dreams,  I  played  at  will.  Disappointments  never  lingered  long  nor  stabbed  too 
deeply,  but  that  moment  of  possible  realization  sent  the  blood  rushing  through 
my  veins. 

Something  stirred  to  renewal  of  joy  in  the  vital  fabric  of  thought.  Duncan 
Jackson  Hall.  It  was  a  fine  name.  To  his  family  and  circle  of  intimates  he  was 
merely  "Jack".  That  was  out  of  character  to  me.  He  was  too  nobly  fascinating, 
keeping  his  reserve  inviolable. 

Just  lately  we  had  met  a  little  oftener,  and  sometimes  I  caught  a  swift  gleam 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  and  what  might  have  been  a  slow  amused  smile.  Yet 
he  was  always  indifferent  and  continued  aloof;  his  untiring  concentration  on  his 
studies  had  made  all  tokens  and  pledges  to  me  unnecessary,  impossible  in  fact; 
and  I  suppose  to  him  I  must  have  seemed  a  young  girl  with  no  goal,  and  with  a 
passion  for  the  irrelevant,  perhaps  the  mystical  and  altruistic. 

To  that  day  when  I  dared  to  believe  I  had  received  an  expression  of  regard, 
while  I  could  not  analyze  it,  or  him,  yet,  his  definite  individualized  category  of 
life,  was  as  if  he  piloted  himself  on  a  chartered  Sea  that  would  forever  prevent 
any  real  understanding.  I  was  behaving  like  "An  idle  ship  upon  an  idle  ocean", 
and  would  have  gladly  broken  all  rules.  He  had  never  descended  to  the  level  of 
my  other  friends,  and  I  have  never  known  how  much  he  noticed  me,  nor  have  I 
dared  to  hope  he  ever  cared. 

My  insight  and  penetration  were  all  lacking  of  course.  There  was  in  me  only 
that  hungry  zest  of  appreciation  and  admiration  which  had  been  the  greatest 
treasure  I  could  pay.  And  now  for  one  week  with  no  sign  whatever,  totally  unaware 
of  the  pathos  or  ridiculousness  of  my  sensations  and  position,  I  walked  in  an 
ecstasy.     Offering  my  little  silent  pledges  and  waiting  for  his  call  or  signal. 

Six  days  only,  and  bouquet  No.  2  stiffly  arranged  as  before,  and  with  the  same 
bloodless  centre,  a  great  white  Camelia! 

"Tell  me  why  there's  no  card"  said  my  Aunt,  with  a  light  laugh  that  hurt. 
For  a  minute  I  think  I  was  as  pale  as  the  Camelia  itself,  as  she  added,  "Whoever 
sent  those  flowers  wasn't  burdened  with  taste  or  fine  feeling,  or  he'd  notice  the 
wilting  ones  on  the  edge — I  suppose  you  know  who  it  is?  and  in  your  place  I'd 
let  him  know  that  withered  Posies  are  a  poor  compliment." 

Aunt  Elizabeth  had  received  offerings  all  her  life,  and  had  sat  on  her  throne 
too  long  to  understand  lesser  lights.  The  complete  conviction  gripped  me  at  her 
comment.  The  absolute  certainty  that  they  never  came  from  the  source  I  had 
hopefully  settled  upon.  I  swallowed  hard,  with  a  total  inability  to  treat  things 
simply.  I  had  been  a  sort  of  puppet  pulled  by  invisible  strings,  and  it  had  been 
all  at  my  own  initiative. 

Suddenly  I  remembered  a  Birthday  two  years  before,  when  at  their  house, 
the  adored  and  adorable  son  to  his  Mother  said,  as  far  as  I  can  recall  the  words — 
"That  he  had  selected  only  fragrant  ones,  I  don't  care  for  any  others,  its  like 
beauty  without  a  soul." 

How  could  I  have  believed  passionately  that  such  flowers  came  from  him? 
For  a  second  it  was  like  a  scene  dramatically  set,  as  I  turned  away  crying,  "I 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


don't  know  who  sent  them,  and  I  don't  care,  I  hate  them  now,  and  you  may  throw 
them  into  the  street." 

The  hope  that  illumined  a  few  short  days  was  crushed,  but  I  still  had  a  sure 
instinct  for  honesty,  and  the  forbearance  of  understanding,  and  I  made  immediate 
concessions  in  the  spirit.  I  apologized,  as  it  were,  to  the  idol  I  had  created,  in- 
spired always  by  the  tenderness  of  idealization  and  that  un-selfconsciousness  that 
believes  in  its  own  creation. 

The  shadow  cast  by  tradition,  by  inherited  qualities,  by  a  fertile  imagination 
is  bigger  than  anything  we  can  create  ourselves.  My  philosophy,  myself  that  time 
in  my  'teens,  led  me  always  a  pilgrim  to  some  uplifted  shrine.  It  was  the  urge  of 
love,  and  service  of  faith  without  rewards,  a  steady  offering  or  sacrifice  with  no 
connections  between  feelings  and  gifts;  a  satisfaction  in  emotions,  with  a  strange 
indifference  to  suitable  or  deserved  returns. 

Bouquets  No.  3  and  4,  the  last  of  the  series,  were  met  with  contemptous  ex- 
pressions, and  left  on  one  of  the  centre  tables,  behind  the  closed  doors,  of  the 
large  drawing-room. 

There  was  a  small  party  at  the  Yoe's  in  Terrace  Row,  and  my  Aunt  Elizabeth 
had  accepted  for  me,  and  arrayed  me  very  prettily. 

Early  that  evening,  one  of  the  girls  I  had  known  at  the  Dearborn  Seminary, 
who  was  lately  married,  whispered  mysteriously,  "There's  someone  I  know  who 
is  just  mad  about  you;  he's  English;  John  Henry  Parsons,  he  bought  an  interest 
in  the  big  Drug  Store,  where  my  husband  is  a  Partner,  and  the  first  moment  he 
saw  you  here  made  us  promise  to  introduce  him.  Oh!  Look!  he's  coming  towards 
us  now,  that  dark  foreign  looking  fellow  over  there." 

In  a  flash  the  scene  of  that  snowy  night  returned,  also  those  last  words  that 
spoke  of  loneliness  in  a  strange  land.  But  for  that  memory  I  could  hardly  have 
met  him  with  courteous  response  to  his  unusually  warm  greeting.  But  the  im- 
pressive manner,  acknowledging  introduction,  certainly  impressed  me;  he  bent 
low  from  the  waist,  a  sort  of  military  bow,  quite  new  to  me,  and  murmured  in 
stilted  fashion,  "That  he  greatly  desired  the  honour"  or  something  to  that  effect. 
When  he  proceded  in  that  strain  about  paying  homage  before  some  Shrine,  Heaven 
know  what!,  I  tried  to  raise  my  eyebrows,  as  I  had  read  of  heroines  doing,  but  I 
didn't  know  what  to  say. 

The  relief  of  the  amusing  situation,  to  a  complete  novice  entirely  unused  to 
social  persiflage  or  semblance  of  devotion,  came  in  his  asking  for  the  dance.  The 
Lancers  were  just  over,  and  instead  of  one  of  the  Square  Dances,  I  found  myself 
on  the  floor  for  a  Waltz.  Lessons  in  that  fascinating  art  during  the  three  or  four 
months  in  New  York,  aided  by  a  musical  ear  and  a  sense  of  rythm,  had  not  been 
without  satisfactory  results,  and  in  the  Gymnasium  of  the  School  where  the  girls 
danced  daily,  we  had  out  weekly  lessons  from  a  Professional,  and  the  sense  of 
harmonious  motion  had  sometimes  made  me  giddy  with  delight,  and  finally  became 
a  conscious  joy. 

All  my  partners  hitherto  however,  had  been  of  my  own  sex,  a  curious  exhilara- 
tion seized  me  as  I  accepted  this  stranger's  offered  arm.  The  excitement  soon 
changed  to  dissatisfaction  as  I  felt  the  awkwardness  of  his  movements,  and  the 
closeness  of  his  hold.  As  I  asked  to  be  seated,  plainly  critical,  I  thought  to  myself, 
"Mercy!  If  this  is  dancing  with  a  man  there's  no  fun  in  it,  he  moves  like  an  ele- 
phant." 

The  distressed  partner,  almost  as  if  he  understood  me,  remarked  apologetically, 
"Your  waltz,  with  its  eternal  reversing,  differs  greatly  from  ours.  Evidently  my 
experience  does  not  insure  my  being  a  welcome  partner,  lie  gracious,  and  give  me 

another  opportunity,  I  pray." 

At  thai  moment  I  was  seated  beside  B  tall  vase  of  red  roses,  to  the  Ih.iuIx  aiul 
fragrance   of   which    he    made   casual    mention      adding      "In   our  country,   at    all 

functions,  the  ladies  carry  them  in  lovely,  often  jewelled,  bouquet-holders,"  and 
my  suspicions  "I  those  stiff  bouquets  became  instantly  confirmed. 

Suddenly,  almost  unconsciously,  1  blurted  out,  "1  don't  like  Camelia's."  Me 
flushed   to  his  temples,  and  overcome  with  shame  .it    m\    inexcusable  rudeness,   1 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


plunged  in  deeper,  trying  to  make  things  better:  "I — I  only  mean,  that  I  care  most 
for  fragrant  flowers — others  have  no  soul,"  deliberately  quoting  that  ultimatum 
of  my  Dream  Prince,  who  had  settled  the  value  of  floral  offerings  for  all  time. 

"If  you  will  permit  me  then,  I'd  like  to  send  you  Roses  hereafter,  only  give  me 
permission  to  say  it  that  way."  This  I  remember,  because  it  sounded  so  romantic. 
I  must  confess  that  I  was  flattered,  and  that  no  sense  of  humour  made  it  ridiculous. 

He  stayed  beside  me  all  the  evening,  until  Jessie  Bross  whispered  mischievously 
"You've  made  a  conquest,  who  is  he? — a  Prince  in  disguise?"  and  at  his  name 
after  introduction,  and  a  brief  colloquy  in  her  merriest  manner,  "You  know  this 
is  a  sort  of  neighbourhood  club  for  dancing  this  Winter,"  and  as  we  were  to  meet 
at  her  house,  she  invited  him  without  reservation  for  the  next  time. 

I  am  quite  convinced  my  embarrassment  was  evident,  when  she  capped  it  all 
with  the  announcement,  "That,  although  it  was  my  first  appearance,  they  counted 
on  me  for  a  regular  member  until  my  return  to  New  York  next  season."  I  began  to 
grow  accustomed  to  his  marked  attentions  and  gave  unequivocal  consent,  vanity 
flattered  to  blindness,  when  he  asked  to  call  and  pressed  it  for  the  following  evening. 

The  vision  of  my  Aunt  Elizabeth's  face  when  I  made  her  the  requisite  explana- 
tions rises  before  me  this  moment. 

Ridicule  is  a  terrible  weapon  and  with  fright  I  recalled  her  laughing  summons 
a  few  days  before  to  her  husband.  "Oh  come  quick  George,  come  and  look  at 
that  fellow  on  horse-back!  What  a  figure  of  a  man!  He's  humped  like  a  camel! 
Its  the  English  Trot  and  he  rises  yards." 

The  new  Uncle's  careless  comment  as  he  stood  beside  her  at  the  window  and 
yawned  openly, — It's  that  English  Druggist.  What's  the  matter  with  the  fool 
out  this  weather?    He  rides  like  a  jockey,  but  was  never  made  to  adorn  a  horse." 

"He  ought  to  see  himself,"  my  Aunt  interpolated,  and  he'd  "  never  try  it  again." 
Their  laugh  returned  to  me  and  the  picture  was  unmistakable. 

There  had  been  a  January  thaw  which  must  have  tempted  him  to  the  role  of 
the  solitary  horseman.  As  it  thrust  itself  upon  recollection,  Alas!  I  knew  what 
to  expect.  The  calls  that  followed  were  provocative  of  sarcasm,  and  I  congealed 
under  it. 

When  surface  defects  are  made  too  plain,  one  naturally  grows  cold  to  advances. 
And  soon,  as  I  was  driven  to  chilliness  and  declined  certain  invitations,  and  the 
acquaintance  that  followed  wrapped  his  approaches  in  a  wet  blanket,  all  enthusiasm 
was  deluged  by  constant  criticism.  When  my  Parents  returned  the  accounts  of 
his  calls  and  flowers  did  not  seem  to  please  my  Mother,  and  it  was  made  amazingly 
difficult  for  any  man,  young  or  old,  to  persevere  in  unsolicited  attentions.  It  died 
therefor  of  inanition. 

About  that  time  I  became  really  interested  in  my  Music  lessons.  With  a 
relatively  decent  Teacher,  at  last  it  began  to  mean  something  more  than  a  personal 
performance  of  some  showy  piece,  thrummed  out  in  my  slap-dash  style.  My 
ringers  dashed  about  with  cheerful  inaccuracy  when  I  tried  to  play,  but  from  the 
very  first  I  was  a  sincere  passionate  lover  of  Music.  And  it  came,  not  only  from  the 
instruction,  more  or  less  perfunctory  and  complacently  inadequate,  of  old  Mr. 
Perribo,  but  from  the  meeting,  seeing  and  hearing  that  little  prodigy,  his  son  Ernst. 
That  strange  dark-looking  child  impressed  me  as  one  so  unusual  at  first  glance. 
His  Father  had  told  me  in  halting  phrases  but  gratified  tones,  that  the  boy's  gifts 
meant  the  becoming  a  great  virtuoso,  which  I  then  did  not  understand  was  the 
highest  possible  attainment,  and  the  greatest  possible  tribute  to  genius.  The 
manners  of  the  youth  were  anything  but  agreeable,  and  until  I  heard  him  play, 
were  decidedly  repellant. 

When  he  came  first  he  was  easily  disturbed,  or  angered  apparently  at  the  least 
notice,  and  made  such  irritable  and  trivial  objections  when  asked  to  play,  standing 
unmoved,  and  plainly  taking  advantage  of  a  chance  to  mortify,  before  me,  his 
tyrannical  parent. 

That  little  fellow,  stunted  somewhat  in  growth,  swarthy,  sullen,  dark,  and  at 
first  so  contemptously  silent;  when  at  last  preemptorily  ordered  to  the  piano, 
startled  and  amazed  me  by  his  brilliant  attack  of  the  instrument  and,  to  me,  his 


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brilliant  interpretation.  There  was  a  fine  scorn  in  that  young  face,  and  my  expres- 
sion of  delight  did  not  seem  to  stir  him  in  the  least.  Those  sombre  eyes  seemed  to 
hate  everything;  so  small,  so  thin,  so  untidy,  so  unhappy  looking,  and  so  evidently 
forced  to  unwilling  obedience! 

The  passion  of  his  silent  rebellion,  the  dramatic  repression  in  him,  touched 
some  strange  cord  in  me.  The  brilliancy  of  such  gifts,  almost  those  of  an  accomp- 
lished artist,  were  wholly  new  to  experience  and  captivated  me  at  once.  It  was  a 
queer  sort  of  extraordinary  power,  transcendent  to  my  fancy,  that  produced 
entirely  new  emotions  as  I  listened.  The  musical  effects  were  instantaneous. 
He  gave  colour  and  passion  in  tones.  Sounds  of  hope  and  adoration  awed  me  into 
a  belief  that  it  could  come  from  no  mortal  conceptions,  but  was  evidently  the 
Divine  language,  and  my  sense  of  rapturous  enjoyment  assimilated  a  kind  of 
knowledge  that  from  that  hour  related  sounds  to  ideas. 

My  outbursts  of  admiration  the  lad  received  stoically.  He  seemed  incapable 
of  interest  in  surroundings  or  of  any  responsive  emotion.  At  my  urgent  request 
it  became  a  habit  to  bring  little  Ernst  often;  and  always,  my  Mother,  who  had 
learned  of  their  poverty,  had  a  treat  prepared,  and  from  time  to  time  thereafter, 
a  basket  of  "goodies"  was  sent  to  their  poor  shabby  rooms  on  the  far  West  side. 
At  last  the  child  warmed  to  cakes  and  candies,  and  what  praises  could  not  reach, 
the  assurance  of  good  feeding  accomplished.  The  stomach  satisfied,  ice  cream 
melting  down  his  throat,  melted  his  reserve.  The  mind  opened  and  I  gained  his 
confidence. 

He  told  me  he  was  often  whipped  to  the  piano,  shut  up  in  the  cold  room  for 
hours,  that  some  keys  to  the  piano  were  broken,  that  his  fingers  hurt  him;  that 
sometimes  cracks  came  and  that  they  bled,  that  he  hated  it  all,  and  he  hated  his 
Father  who  drove  him  so  relentlessly. 

Old  Mr.  Perabo  had  a  suave  and  smirking  manner,  was  as  gentle  as  he  was 
shabby,  and  had  always  appeared  to  me  a  mild  character.  But  who  can  measure 
or  understand  those  Polish  Jews,  their  slumbering  power,  or  the  unapproachable 
genius,  of  the  greatly  gifted  few  who  have  arisen  to  challenge  the  world?  The 
apparition  of  a  genius  is  incalculable,  anywhere  or  in  any  line  it  is  beyond  all 
comprehension. 

Ernst  Perabo  was  to  become  in  future  years  a  noted  pianist,  and  acknowledged 
artist,  yet  certainly  in  his  hard  and  bitter  youth,  he  had  distaste  rather  than  love, 
of  his  instrument.  I  do  not  forget  my  occasional  visits  to  the  miserable  tenement 
that  sheltered  the  Father  and  son,  and  they  called  me  a  "good  angel";  and  I 
could  not  realize  that  such  distinctive  compliments  merely  meant  the  degree  of 
largesse  bestowed  and  received;  a  real  compliment,  later  in  life,  was  paid  my  mem- 
ory by  Ernst  Perabo,  of  whom  I  had  entirely  lost  sight,  in  his  dedicating  certain 
compositions  to  me. 

In  those  days  Musical  Art,  with  us,  was  at  a  low  ebb,  in  fact  the  Glorious  Muse 
had  few  supporters  in  our  Middle  West,  then  far  removed  apparently  from  seats 
of  culture.  The  benefit  was  not  small  to  me  in  the  experienced  delight  which 
established  taste,  increased  activity,  and  kindled  an  eagerness  in  a  manner  far 
beyond  any  tuition  that  the  Father,  without  the  aid  of  his  son,  could  have  given. 
My  chief  defect  at  that  stage  was  in  knowledge,  not  in  taste,  but  in  understanding 
the  power  of  sounds. 

And  once,  owing  to  my  Mother's  generosity  who  gave  them  tickets  to  accomp- 
any us  to  the  advertised  Violin  Recital,  I  hail  a  shock  of  joy.  The  great  Artist 
with  the  strange  name,  that  I  remembered  from  New  1  > u r \  port  days,  when  1  had 
envied   Miss   Mary  and   Mr.    Leslie  starting  for  a  Concert,   1   was  at    last    to  hear. 

The  day  had  come  when  I  listened  to  Ole  Bull,  the  first  great  Violinist  1  had  ever 

heard.  The  sensations  of  triumphant  joy  enraptured  me,  and  1  have  no  words 
now,  as  I   have  never  had,  to  describe  such  sensations. 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


THE    OVERSOUL 

Remaining  at  home  for  the  rest  of  that  year  there  seemed  about  me  an  ir- 
repressible sense  of  joy.  I  used  to  watch  the  early  morning  lights  over  the  Lake, 
and  the  lovely  tones  and  tints  of  evening,  and  thank  God,  sometimes  in  light- 
hearted  awe-struck  gratitude  for  being  so  happy — so  comfortable — and  so  free 
from  restraint.  Perhaps  Fate  is  always  with  us,  and  the  more  of  interests  even  of 
strangeness  we  crowd  into  our  lives  the  better. 

That  Winter  did  more  for  me  than  any  previous  year  at  school.  More  and 
more  I  enjoyed  reading,  reading  aloud  sometimes  to  hear  the  words — I  so  loved 
words — but  instinctively  I  longed  for  companionship  in  a  way  that  would  give 
immediate  understanding. 

We  none  of  us  wear  the  badge  of  Caste  like  the  Hindoos,  but  it  is  none  the  less 
visible  in  education,  in  taste,  bearing,  and  manner,  and  it  divides  and  separates 
implacably.  After  all  it  makes  different  persons  and  personality  profoundly 
distinct.  It  isn't  that  some  are  less  refined,  less  attractive,  or  that  surroundings 
are  hostile.  It  is  the  superior  force,  the  vitality,  the  call,  the  challenge,  the  charm 
that  conquers.  And  so  with  some  affinities  felt  at  once,  thought  becomes  stronger, 
action  more  harmonious,  faculties  more  flexible,  and  waverings  of  purpose  and 
feeling  diminish. 

It  is  not  the  question  of  disposition  but  of  secret  affinities — and  happily  I 
found  a  comrade  of  smiliar  desires  and  finer  abilities.  A  subtle  instinct  told  me  that 
books  would  be  like  witnesses  between  us  and  a  sort  of  protection.  It  was  this 
mutual  taste  discerned  that  drove  me  to  effort  and  brought  her  out  of  her  isolation. 

We  had  always,  to  my  knowledge,  friendly  acquaintance  with  the  Clark's 
and  I  had  played  in  childhood  with  "Libbie",  their  only  daughter.  Our  relations 
were  cordial  enough  for  me  to  have  been  sent  to  their  house  when  my  darling 
youngest  brother  was  born — George  of  the  golden  curls,  blue  eyes  and  sunny  smile. 

But  we  had  swept  apart,  and  until  this  half-year  of  my  remaining  at  home, 
there  seemed  a  strain  between  us  whenever  we  met.  In  my  ignorance  I  could 
not  break  it — school  or  travel,  or  time  or  something  unrecognized,  had  largely 
separated  us.  It  might  have  been  a  separating  quality  of  the  soul.  She  appealed 
as  distinctly  intellectual  and  socially  alien;  and  the  three  years  difference  in  our 
ages,  at  first  of  no  account,  seemed  now  marked  by  a  sort  of  cynical  superiority 
and  a  consequent  strange  aloofness.  Her  intelligence  was  the  charm,  and  her 
indifference  a  sort  of  challenge.     For,  what  I  wanted  I  never  ceased  striving  for. 

I  did  not  understand  why  she  could  not  care  for  me,  coldness  was  no  great 
deterrent  since  I  was  unaccustomed  to  being  denied  what  I  sought.  She  never 
seemed  to  talk  lightly,  was  apparently  thinking  deeply  as  if  tightly  strung;  and  at 
first,  her  isolation  denied  any  communion  of  interest  or  pursuits.  However  wrapped 
up  in  self,  or  however  tight-fitting  the  armour,  my  persistent  wooing  lifted  the 
visor  and  slowly  removed  the  breast-plate.  I  asked  her  to  drive  with  me  here  and 
there,  arranged  special  meetings,  sent  flowers  on  her  Birthday,  which  I  happened 
to  discover  and,  making  several  calls  to  her  one,  the  way  was  finally  opened. 

It  was  then  at  my  urgent  invitation  and  suggestion  we  arranged  to  read  together, 
in  my  rooms  overlooking  the  Lake,  twice  or  three  times  a  week,  or  oftener,  if  pos- 
sible, so  great  was  my  ardour.  She  was  very  individual.  She  was,  even  at  that 
stage,  a  sort  of  critical  onlooker,  not  a  participant  anywhere.  She  never  asked 
questions,  and  there  was  no  exchange  of  confidences,  and  no  occasions  for  the 
strivings  of  curiosity.  Her  sarcastic  shafts  were  not  always  aimed  at  the  individual, 
and  I  soon  learned  to  treat  her  remarks  as  accidental  and  too  widely  general  to  be 
hurt  over.  To  a  degree,  I  conquered  native  reticence,  got  her  out  of  her  solitude, 
and  finally  she  stepped  down  to  me. 

It  was  at  this  very  period  that  I  met  Mr.  Wiley,  a  shy,  clever,  mild  speaking 
man,  gifted,  and  yet  dumb,  before  his  idol.  It  was  always  pathetic  to  me  that  so 
endowed  a  being,  one  so  eminently  suited  to  make  a  woman  of  her  nature  proud 
and  happy,  should  lack  all  knowledge  how  to  make  inroads,  or  how  to  lay  successful 
siege  to  the  citadel  of  her  heart.     He  loved  Elysabeth  but  dared  not  "rush  in", 

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as  did  a  simple  soul  later,  where  "Angels  feared  to  tread".  With  Elysabeth,  it 
was  as  if  she  wore  a  cloak  which  she  unwrapped  very  slowly,  layer  after  layer; 
as  if  reluctantly  unwrapping  her  reserve,  and  perhaps  it  was  not  strange  that  so 
delicate,  high-minded  and  spiritual  a  nature  as  his  could  never  pass  the  icy  barrier. 
Whether  coldness  was  intentional  there,  I  could  not  decide,  but  to  me,  it  was  always 
remoteness  of  nature;  a  sort  of  untouched  something  in  her;  probably  she  did  not 
intend  to  be  really  impersonal,  certainly  she  seemed  easily  won  while  I  was  in 
Europe,  by  a  seemingly  very  ordinary  man. 

I  have  always  felt  in  debt  to  Mr.  Wiley,  for  he  had  familiarized  us  by  gifts  of 
the  volumes  of  James  Martineau's  Sermons,  and  in  years  after  he  opened  the 
door  for  me  to  meet  that  distinguished  scholar  and  Saint  with  whom  he  cor- 
responded. That  kindness  also  made  me  acquainted  with  a  few  other  distinguished 
Englishmen,  that  I  met  at  the  Martineau  home,  which  gave  me  experiences  no  one 
else  could  have  afforded. 

When  Elysabeth  and  I  first  began  our  readings  I  found  her  thoughts  were 
never  wandering  like  mine,  she  was  not  led  astray  or  dominated  by  the  personal, 
or  by  any  sparkle  of  fascination  anywhere.  She  was  stable,  clever,  accurate, 
concentrated  where  it  was  likely  to  be  exuberance  or  diffusion  in  me.  I  was  never 
as  keenly  intellectual,  or  as  sure  as  those  who  know  a  sort  of  personal  immunity 
and  fix  eyes  steadily  upon  a  single  goal. 

Sensitive  and  intense  feelings,  a  widely  imaginative  vision,  is  not  desirable 
when  singleness  of  aim  and  complete  concentration  is  necessary  to  accomplishment. 
I  believe  things  someway  spoil  each  other  in  warm  natures. 

When  we  first  began  our  regular  readings  she  broke  in  one  day,  "Don't  ever 
call  me  Libby  again."  My  name  is  Elysabeth.  I  have  decided  to  take  the  English 
spelling.  Please  remember  it  is  now  Elysabeth — E-1-y-s-a-b-e-t-h."  "Yes,  I 
responded  quickly,"  I  changed  mine  from  Neanie  to  Nina,  when  I  was  at  New- 
buryport.  I  made  up  my  mind  I  would  not  have  that  baby  name  and  queer  spelling 
any  longer.  You  know  I  was  christened  Cornelia,  but  that  is  Mother's  name  and 
because  her  Father  loved  the  Classics  he  called  her  Cornelia  Augusta  for  the  Roman 
Empress.  They  say  that  Mother  is  stately  and  that  it  suits  her,  but  I'm  what 
Grandmother  calls  a  Flutterbudget,  or  something  that  sounded  like  that;  anyone 
would  laugh  to  say  Cornelia  to  me."  And  thereupon  we  laughed  together,  and 
figuratively  clasped  hands  over  the  pact  made  with  mutual  satisfaction. 

We  both  of  us  had  what  we  craved,  sympathetic  companionship,  opportunity, 
and  congenial  enjoyment  in  our  eager  dippings  into  Literature.  She  once  said  to 
me  years  later,  for  still  we  walk  the  same  earth  with  our  friendship  unbroken — "I 
was  in  those  days  passivity  itself,  and  you,  dominated  by  a  force  of  passion,  con- 
quered detachment  in  me;  loving  life  as  you  did  you  seemed  a  sure  victor  in  it, 
and  were,  to  mc,  like  a  haunting  accompaniment  to  its  beauty."  None  the  less 
as  I  recall  that  time,  I  know  well  I  scattered  ideas  when  she  most  wanted  them 
clarified  and  concentrated;  and  whatever  we  were  reading  I  continued  steadily 
emotional,  and  created  my  "Garden  of  Dreams"  as  a  form  of  conquest  over  the 
commonplace  of  practical  days.     It  meant  detachment  to  dream. 

Elysabcth's  suggestions  were  strictly  followed,  and  all  the  books  she  advised 
were  purchased;  but  after  wallowing  through  Alger's  History  of  "The  Doctrine 
of  a  Future  Life",  and  Draper's  "Intellectual  Development  of  Europe",  a  few 
days  of  "Spencer's  First  Principles",  made  a  rebel  of  me.  1  flatly  refused  a  further 
of  Philosophy,  and  produced  "Arnold's  Kssays  and  Poems",  which  were 
followed  in  course  by  James  Russcl  Lowells,  "Study  Windows"  and  finally  Finer- 
son's  Works,  presented  to  me  at  that  time,  started  us  in  the  path  of  mysticism. 
And  for  me  it  shot  up  from  the  ground  to  the  stars.  We  solemnly  pledged  our- 
selves to  eschew  the  Ancients,  and  entertain  or  enlighten  ourselves  by  studying 

the  modern  school  of  Thinkers.  Somew.iy  1  fairly  began  tO  revel  in  the  Trans- 
cendental Essay's  that  I  could  only  pretend  to  understand. 

One  day,  seeing  in  The  Tribune  that  the  great  Fmerson  himself  was  in  town 
and    hooked    for   a    certain    Lecture,    I    dto\e    hastily    up    to    Flysabct  h's    with    my 

Father's  last  gift,  a  pack  of  visiting  cards,  which  1  proudly  displayed  with  the 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


important  announcement  of  its  use!  Once,  when  a  very  little  girl,  I  had  dressed 
up  to  play  making  calls,  as  did  my  Mother  and  Aunts;  and  aware  that  they  always 
carried  cards,  I  secured  a  blank  one  and  printed  something  I  thought  better  than 
my  name.  It  was  my  real  title,  I  thought,  and  single  claim  to  consideration. 
In  carefully  formed  letters  I  wrote,  "O.  LUNT'S  DAUGHTER",  fully  satisfied 
with  that  distinction.  When  I  proudly  displayed  the  same  to  my  amused  family, 
Father  caught  me  in  his  arms  and  gravely  asked  for  one  as  a  keepsake.  He  kept 
it  until  soiled  and  worn,  and  on  my  Birthday,  at  the  mature  age  of  sixteen,  he  had 
shown  it  to  me  with  an  embrace,  and  added  to  the  beautiful  watch  and  chain 
purchased  at  Tiffany's,  so  delighting  me  with  its  stem  winder  and  exquisite  case — 
he  had  handed  me  the  cards  engraved  in  Old  English,  which  I  have  used  in  prefer- 
ence to  all  others  for  over  sixty  years. 

How  proud  I  was  to  show  Elysabeth,  "Miss  Lunt"  in  Old  English,  and  I 
could  not  refrain  from  saying,  "If  you  don't  happen  to  have  cards  of  your  own, 
just  write  your  name  under  mine.  That  will  do  just  as  well.  It  will  be  quite  neces- 
sary to  the  situation.  We  are  to  make  a  call  on  Mr.  Emerson.  That  is  the  thing 
to  do."  She  looked  fairly  stunned  as  I  continued,  "It  belongs  to  our  rank  as 
disciples". 

It  was  a  splendid  chance  to  send  up  my  fine  new  card,  and  incidently  to  inter- 
view the  philosopher!  "  To  call  on  Mr.  Emerson!  Why  we  can't— we  never  could," 
cried  my  astonished  chum.    "You're  crazy  Nina,  I  wouldn't  dare  to  go." 

"Why  not  go  and  call  on  him?  Aren't  we  his  disciples?  He  ought  to  see  us," 
and  naturally,  I  said  loftily,  "he  will  be  glad  to  welcome  us."  At  further  objections, 
my  extravagant  spirit  in  arms  arose,  and  a  new  crop  of  words  burst  forth. 

"We  must  gain  new  knowledge,  Elysabeth,  all  the  time  by  seeing  writers  and 
people  who  do  things.  That  will  help  us  to  understand  life;  and  you  are  forever 
talking  about  understanding  the  relation  between  books  and  people,  and  of  course, 
with  patronizing  calmness,  he  will  be  pleased  to  know  how  much  we  like  his  books. 
Everybody  is  flattered  by  appreciation.  You  like  it,  and  so  do  I,  and  it  isn't  the 
best  way  to  be  too  retiring.  You  are  too  calculating,  Elysabeth,  the  situation 
doesn't  demand  it." 

The  heart  of  my  inexperienced  and  undisciplined  youth  repeated  its  argument 
hotly,  until  impetuous  assurances  brought  confusion  to  her  clear  headedness,  and 
she  fluttered  and  consented. 

There  was  something  incalculable  and  inexhaustible  in  my  desire  and  determin- 
ation. That  self-confidence  which  nothing  had  ever  destroyed  made  me  see,  and 
partake,  and  act  in  a  way  not  foreknown  or  foremeasurable.  The  statutes  of  the 
God's  had  grandeur;  but  all  reverence  was  in  the  background  and  fear  to  me  un- 
known. And  I,  who  in  abject  humility,  knelt  before  the  Altar  to  a  boy  of  twenty, 
felt  no  shrinking  from  assured  approach  to  the  mightiest  intellect.  The  Great 
Writer,  was  to  me,  an  ordinary  mortal,  compared  to  my  airy,  indistinct,  distant, 
yet  highly  coloured  "Dream  Prince"  who  could  not  be  identified  with  any  real  or 
solid  inhabitant  of  the  earth. 

Oh!  how  can  I  tell  of  that  visit,  the  history  of  which  always  arouses  intense 
amusement  in  my  circle;  the  reciting  of  which  I  am  still  at  times  called  upon  for, 
and  that  sends  its  occasional  swift  shiver  down  my  spine  this  moment.  Its  vast 
assumption!  The  unconscious  arrogance  of  words  and  manner;  the  ignoring 
conformity  and  conventions;  the  insistence  upon  individual  right  to  all  honours 
and  privileges,  characteristic  at  the  time,  but  crushing  to  remember. 

In  great  excitement  we  drove  to  the  Hotel,  and  I  sent  up  the  bit  of  pasteboard 
bearing  the  names,  "Miss  Lunt",  in  Old  English,  and  "Miss  Clark",  carefully 
written  underneath.  It  took  all  the  force  I  could  exert  to  encourage  my  halting 
comrade  and  impress  her  with  the  great  opportunity.  No  conviction  of  impropriety 
daunted  me,  I  disdained  objections,  as  I  had  when  we  started  forth,  all  arrayed, 
that  afternoon,  in  our  best  clothes.  I  had  no  tremors  as  we  reached  the  Hotel 
and  our  names  were  sent  up. 

Mr.  Emerson  was  at  home,  the  message  came,  and  would  receive  us.  Elysabeth 
lost  capacity  for  self  direction  and  followed  her  leader  dumbly.     The  audience 


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kept  her  silent,  in  a  rapturous  awe,  as  she  afterwards  confessed  to  me.  Mine 
were  conflicting  impressions — but  a  grave  respect  was  impressed  upon  me  pro- 
foundly throughout  the  whole  interview.  And  the  perfect  familiarity  in  him  that 
could  cross  boundaries  and  communicate  with  the  least  among  the  children,  made 
me  at  home.  The  first  look,  bent  kindly,  as  he  greeted  us,  was  poetry  and  religion — 
it  was  like  a  ray  of  light,  irresistible,  with  nothing  to  show  the  omnipotence  of 
my  limitations,  or  of  any  possible  purpose  to  put  us  in  our  place. 

Fancy  that  picture!  That  tall,  thin  commanding  figure,  prominent  but  refined 
features;  erect  and  quiet  without  pretension;  the  spirit  shining  from  a  serene  and 
expressive  countenance.  As  Hawthorne  said  of  him,  "Encountering  each  man 
alive  as  if  expecting  to  receive  more  than  he  could  impart."  The  man  that,  sitting, 
walking  or  speaking,  was  as  much  aloof  as  a  Star — and  two  callow  girls  with  neither 
definite  statements  nor  explanation  for  their  uncalled  for  presence,  leaning  forward 
on  the  very  edge  of  their  chairs,  staring  admiringly  at  the  simple  austere  Thinker, 
and  nearer  to  the  mysterious  seat  of  worshipful  learning  than  ever  before. 

Race  was  stamped  upon  him,  and  pure  intellectual  gleams  were  diffusing  about 
his  presence  like  the  garment  of  a  "shining  one". 

It  was  Harriet  Martineau,  who  spoke  of  his  "vague  nobleness  and  thorough 
sweetness"  and  even  a  child  could  feel  that.  It  is  gladness  to  think  that  however 
profound  our  ignorance,  for  one  hour,  without  being  overawed  with  his  supremacy, 
our  callow  spirits  were  bathed  in  his  influence. 

Greatness  in  the  garb  of  gentleness  must  be  one  of  the  great  uplifting  levers 
of  our  world.  And  that  great  man,  the  Prophet  burdened  with  a  message  for  the 
people,  did  not  disdain  to  give  of  his  kindly  courtesy  and  interest,  and  did  not 
discover  by  look  or  word  to  me,  my  own  private  folly.  The  spontaneous  hospitality 
of  manner,  the  affable  courtesy  that  met  our  advances,  and  my  cool  and  casual 
demand  on  his  time  which  lacked  all  the  reverence  of  his  contemporaries,  who 
hedged  him  about  with  something  like  saint-ship,  produced  no  apparent  con- 
sciousness or  criticism.  It  is  said  that  he  had  welcome  for  the  young  always,  that 
he  opened  to  them  more  readily  and  with  some  touch  of  the  intimacy  only  his 
household  knew. 

Surely  it  was  proved  then  and  there  that  the  Philosopher  and  Poet  was  not 
one  to  sit  on  heights  and  look  with  indifference  on  human  affairs,  or  even  at  ex- 
treme manifestations  of  crudity  and  assumption.  He  caught  from  the  pinnacles 
of  Parnassus,  and  brought  Peers  and  followers  face  to  face  with  the  Infinite, yet  he 
walked  the  same  streets  with  us,  and  lived  with  humanity  there. 

He  asked  many  questions,  allowing  no  long  pause  of  silence.  "Where  we  had 
been  to  school?  What  Church  did  we  attend?",  and  entirely  at  ease,  in  assured 
conviction  of  its  value,  I  proceeded  to  give  in  summary  the  history  of  my  life; 
to  enlarge  graphically  in  outlining  my  ideas;  to  prove  my  educated  tastes!  and 
even  certain  aspirations  were  suggested,  if  not  dwelt  upon;  and  he  spoke  on  in 
gentle  compassion,  while  I  gravely  continued — "You  know,  Mr.  Emerson,  we've 
been  very  anxious  to  meet  you, — We  are  reading  your  books. — We  like  them  very 
much  indeed,  and  we  hav'nt  skipped  a  single  page."  "Indeed,"  he  replied,  the  swift 
flash  of  a  smile  lighting  his  placid  benignant  countenance,  "And  so  you  came  to 
see  me?  Well!  Now  tell  me  what  you  have  read  lately?"  "The  Oversoul",  I 
replied  promptly;  that  had  been  our  last  Essay;  and  instantly  he  asked  with  an 
unmistakable  twinkle, — "And  do  you  understand  it?"  Lacking  time  to  evade, 
and  with  no  instinct  for  prevarication,  the  habit   of  truth  prevailed. 

With  a  remarkably  impressive,  inconsiderate  and  emphatic  negative, — "No 
I  da  not.     I  don't  quite.     I'm  sorry." 

The  K'reat   Transcendentalist    broke   into  an   irradiating   humour,   and   said,   in 

a  tone  full  of  laughter,  "Neither  do  I" 

Mis  amusemeni  was  almost  in  effect  like  audible  laughter,  and  without  any 

Comprehension  Of  itS  quality  Or  real  reason,  it  arOUSed  mine  and  a  very  happy  sense 

ol  presumed  approval,  and  it  went  to  my  head.     It  took  yean  for  me  to  see  tin  sell, 

or  to  appreciate  thai   admirably  ironic  reply  to  such  superb  arrogance.    The 


l',l,r   ijS 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


transgression  of  all  rules  had  afforded  me  only  a  triumphant  and  unclouded  satis- 
faction. 

When  he  said  Good-bye,  it  was  with  a  gentleness  that  hid  all  irony,  and  with 
no  sarcasm  of  tone  or  glance.  "Thank  you  for  coming,  and  I'm  glad  you  like  my 
books." 

As  a  tribute  to  the  perpetual  claims  of  simplicity  and  sincerity,  it  showed  also 
in  that  great  moralist  the  undimmed  light  of  the  spirit.  His  nature  and  genius 
has  been  all  the  more  wonderful  to  me  from  that  day  to  this.  That  special  charm, 
that  serene  smile,  the  whole  picture  combats  all  my  sensations  of  mortification. 

Forever  to  me  thereafter  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  represented  the  Transcendental 
behind  all  accepted  dogmas.  His  Transcendentalism  may  not  have  been  profound, 
he  may  have  been  no  metaphysician,  but  he  is  a  great  light  in  darkness;  and  I 
have  thought  that  no  person  capable  of  feeling  the  force  of  spiritual  truth,  could 
fail  to  realize  that  his  doctrine  and  teaching  whether  convincing  or  not,  has  weighed 
heavily. 

And  he  was  his  own  evidence  that  needed  no  verification.  The  truths  he 
uttered,  when  once  understood,  had  an  enfranchising  power,  and  were  as  sure 
in  action  as  the  laws  of  gravity. 

His  was  the  view  that  saw  beyond,  and  sounded  the  call  from  a  lofty  soul 
that  will  never  die — the  glow  and  charm  of  a  strange  and  marvellous  world  of 
thought.  For  me  he  will  ever  take  on  majesty,  and  mystery  and  brightness,  and 
dwell  in  memory  a  shining  figure  on  some  Mount  of  Transfiguration. 


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Book     III 


'Her  Children  arise  up  and  call  her  blessed.''' 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


BOOK     III 


THE    SEA    TRIP 

The  Ancient  Teachers  say,  that  our  thoughts  and  acts  are  not  merely  the 
incidents  of  life  but  its  Creator.  "All  that  we  are  is  the  result  of  what  we  have 
thought.  It  is  founded  on  our  thoughts,  it  is  made  up  of  our  thoughts;"  Surely 
this  expounds  a  high  truth,  that  one  must  control  wishes  and  feelings  because 
of  their  immeasurable  inherent  potentialities,  because  the  least  of  human  acts  and 
human  thoughts  by  self-registration  may  fix  the  basis  of  a  new  departure  from  the 
everlasting  truth  of  moral  law,  and  so  set  its  sure  but  invisible  seal  on  the  soul 
as  it  passes  through  time  into  the  Eternities. 

Our  history  is  always  with  us,  softening  or  mellowing  the  quality  of  our  daily 
lives,  or  sharpening  or  lowering  it.  The  Past  imbues  the  Present  with  its  dignity 
or  despair. 

And  now  I  look  back  into  no  pale  sunset  of  memory,  nor  do  I  find  the  light 
in  my  past  growing  faint  or  the  colours  cold,  for  there  returns  as  I  write  the  sense 
of  happy  exhilaration — the  sense  of  wings!  After  all  it  is  the  imagination  of  man 
that  triumphs  over  what  most  eludes  and  perplexes  us,  and  reaches  the  heart  of 
the  matter  at  issue,  whether  joy  or  sorrow,  labour  or  pleasure,  whatever  faces  us! 
And  yielding  allegiance,  it  seems  to  be  a  means  of  approaching  truth,  although 
it  may  have  invaded  an  insolvable  dilemma. 

There  was  a  restless  energy  in  me  that  Spring — Immemorial  passion  for  beauty 
was  ever  present  like  a  City  of  exhaustless  resources  in  a  country  where  there  was 
nothing  shadowy;  where  all  was  lambent  light  toward  which  awakened  fancy 
struggled;  where  everything  bore  witness  of  abounding  life  and  adventure.  Verily! 
Life  in  its  simplest  forms  is  arched  about  by  mystery;  and  of  all  those  bright  ex- 
periences only  memories  remain,  and  they  are  now  but  the  faint  aroma  of  thought 
and  sense  too  delicate  often  for  words. 

When  Gussie  McClintock's  letter  came,  I  read  it  aloud  with  interjections  of 
delight  over  the  affection  expressed  and  invitation  repeated.  The  Spirit  of  Youth 
in  everything,  made  me  burst  forth  without  qualifications,  "Oh! — Oh! — If  only 
I  could  go,  I'd  rather  do  it  than  anything," — no  fears  assailing,  or  realization  of 
difficulties,  distance  or  dangers, — only  a  sort  of  new  game  suggested,  a  kaleide- 
scopic  change  of  environment  and  surroundings,  that  tempted,  in  its  gay  promise 
of  setting  a  new  pace  to  the  days!  Someone  called  Fear,  "Imagination  turned 
Prophet" — but  my  courage  for  adventuring,  or  being  with  strange  people,  had 
never  seemed  to  desert  me. 

"Do  you  mean  you  would  like  to  cross  the  Ocean,  to  go  so  far  away  among 
comparative  strangers?  Aren't  you  a  bit  afraid  of  the  dividing  distance  and  such 
a  great  change?"  gently  queried  my  Mother. 

"Nonsense,"  interrupted  my  Father,  "we  couldn't  allow  it  for  a  minute; 
What!  to  let  that  Ocean  roll  between  us — she  doesn't  know  what  she  wants  half 
the  time,  do  you  dear?" 

"Well!"  I  said  laughing,  no  thought  of  its  possible  realization,  "I  think  I 
could  stand  seeing  the  world  outside  of  Chicago  and  New  York!"  in  my  heart 
the  acutely  conscious  feeling  that  I  never  thought  of  being  afraid,  and  would  refuse 
to  imagine  delights  of  travel,  if  I  did  not  know  fears  would  depart. 

Ever  since  that  Emerson  episode  I  had  gained  the  most  extraordinary  sense 
of  being  acceptable  everywhere;  of  being  taken  for  granted  as  all  right;  good 
enough;  proudly  recalling  Grandfather's  encouragement  that  I  was  certainly 
"Not  half  bad". 

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And  this  light  interchange  all  passed  from  my  mind  to  be  emphasized  soon 
by  a  special  expression  of  the  love,  sympathy  and  indulgence  of  my  Parents. 
And  first,  last,  and  all  the  way  between,  of  the  one  who  easily  mastered  opposition — 
My  Mother — who  at  times  seemed  to  sit  at  the  Wheel  of  Destiny  and  revolve  it 
for  her  children. 

It  was  March  19th,  and  I  rose  happily  to  think,  "Oh!  I'm  seventeen — I'm 
seventeen!"  The  Lake  and  the  Sky  had  such  manifold  music  and  meaning — and 
Oh!  the  wonders  of  seeing  and  hearing  and  feeling  and  seeking!  Life  was  so  abund- 
ant in  me  that  Birthday  morning.     It  was  like  being  shod  with  winged  sandals! 

And  when  Father,  at  breakfast,  handed  me  a  jeweller's  box  of  delicate  kid, 
and  added  laughing,  "This  or  a  trip  to  Europe?"  I  opened  in  excitement  to  see 
the  loveliest  set  of  Seed-pearls — Necklace,  Bracelets,  Earrings  and  Brooch,  all 
set  in  hand-wrought  Etruscian  gold  of  exquisitely  fine  design,  so  beautiful  to  my 
ravished  eyes  that  I  could  hardly  speak. 

The  Tiffany  box  in  itself,  had  aroused  expectation,  but  the  sight  of  that  full 
set  of  jewellery,  my  first  possession  of  intrinsic  value,  gave  me  extravagant  delight 
which  overflowed  in  adjectives,  as  I  handled  first  one  and  then  another  piece — 
taking  out  and  putting  in  again,  and  refusing  food  until  I  heard  my  Father's  voice. 
"You  told  your  Mother  last  year,  that  more  than  anything  else  you  wanted  a 
diamond  ring,  apparently  not  even  satisfied  with  the  fine  watch  we  gave  you  last 
year — How  about  these  pearls  instead  of  diamonds?" 

"Oh  Father!  nothing  in  the  world  could  be  finer — Oh!  they  are  so  lovely  and 
I  am  so  happy." 

But  eyes  opened  and  filled  instantly  as  Mother  slipped  me  across  the  table, 
a  fascinating  little  blue  velvet  ring-box,  and  tears  streamed  so  suddenly  that  I 
could  hardly  see  the  shining  of  the  three  diamonds  that  gleamed  on  the  cushioned 
lining  of  the  little  case.  Oh!  those  three  diamonds!  They  seemed  a  miracle  of 
loveliness.  I  look  down  now  as  I  write,  and  it  flashes  back  the  picture,  for  I  wear 
that  ring  today,  re-set  years  after  to  better  suit  my  Mother's  taste  for  her  grown- 
up daughter. 

But  that  Birthday  morning  was  almost  too  much  in  fulfilling  my  lightly  ex- 
pressed wishes,  and  well  I  remember  some  comments  of  my  Aunts  that  dashed 
enthusiasm.  Hearing  that  I  was  "too  spoiled"  and  that  I  "was  likely  to  become 
very  selfish  and  self-centred."  However  I  merely  danced  about,  to  the  general 
amusement,  arrayed  in  my  new  splendour,  eager  for  the  few  friends  who  were 
invited  that  afternoon. 

When  Jessie  Bross  came  in,  I  held  up  my  finger,  shifting  it  this  way  and  that, 
for  the  light  to  catch  the  different  facets.  To  my  astonishment,  after  answering 
inquiries,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears;  "Oh  Nina! — Your  Mother! — Such  a  Mother! — 
and  mine?"  with  a  choking  sob  I  shall  never  forget,  "She  doesn't  love  me;  she 
doesn't  like  it  when  Father  takes  me  anywhere" — but,  with  a  brave  struggle — 
"I'm  so  foolish,  forget  it,  I'm  so  glad  for  you." 

But  Elysabeth  Clark  gazed  upon  my  display  with  a  sort  of  amused  smile, 
and  rather  coolly  expressed  admiration,  and  with  unconscious  but  characteristic 
superiority — "They  are  certainly  very  splendid  for  seventeen." 

"She  outshines  the  neighbourhood"  piped  in  my  cousin,  Joe  Evans,  who  was 
staying  with  us  for  a  while.  "I  only  meant,"  added  the  former,  "thai  they  seemed 
very  fine  for  her  age."  But  what  interested  Elysabeth  far  more  than  personal 
a  dor  11111  cut,  was  a  pile  of  new  books  from  the  Library.  "Let's  start  in  with  1  lu  Hem's 
Middle  A^es"  was  her  comment.  "Merer!"  I  cried,  "that  means  wading  through 
three  volumes;  I'd  rather  take  "Lewes  History  of  Philosophy",  Only  one,  and  be 
done  with   ii.      For  pity's  sake,  why  can't   we  read  something  of  another  age?"   1 

ventured.  "Would  you  prefer  The  Attic  Orators,  Plutarch's  Lives,The  Dialogues 
oi  Plato,  or  the  Greek  Plays",  sarcastically  inquired  my  clever  companion,  con- 
tinuing,  as  Jessie  punctuated  our  conversation  with  laughter,  "We've  got  to 
stud)  backward  before  we  can  go  forward.  You're  too  impatient  and  too  desultory, 
Nina." 

"Yes,"  l  sighed,  catching  the  .unused  glances  the  tw*>  exchanged,  "I'm  too 

/■      in  ■ 


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occupied  now  enjoying  the  glitter  on  the  fourth  finger  of  my  right  hand  to  care 
about  anybody  or  anything  outside  this  house.  Do  drop  the  books,  Elysabeth, 
for  once,  it's  time  for  Birthday-cake  and  ice  cream,  and  to  gaze  at  my  seventeen 
candles!" 

That  very  night,  Mr.  Chandler  came,  with  some  lovely  flowers,  as  he  had 
learned  from  my  Aunt  the  day,  and,  at  his  exclamation  over  the  diamond  ring 
especially,  he  declared  "he  was  quite  frightened  at  first  until  he  saw  where  I  wore 
it."  "How  I  should  deplore  losing  my  little  friend,"  he  said,  as  he  held  the  hand 
indicated;  "don't  go  away  too  soon  or  too  far."  George  Chandler,  was  liked  and 
trusted  by  us  all,  and  I  could  never  forget  his  generous  defense,  and  chivalrous 
coming  to  my  rescue,  that  night  at  the  wedding;  and  of  late,  my  head  as  well  as 
my  heart,  had  begun  to  swell  when  he  looked  approvingly,  or  listened,  well  pleased, 
to  my  chatter.  He  came  to  our  house  often,  and  there  was  a  prospect  of  real 
friendship,  but  he  was  cut  down  in  early  maturity,  for  he  too,  was  one  of  the  early 
victims  of  the  Civil  War. 

It  was  soon  after  that  memorable  Birthday,  that  there  came  into  my  life  a 
new  influence.  It  made  all  minor  relations  sink  into  insignificance,  compared  to 
the  interest  that  deepened  into  admiration  and  swift  response,  aroused  by  the 
specially  expressed  regard  of  our  family  physician.  He  was  a  splendid  looking 
man;  of  noble  bearing  and  marked  intellectual  gifts,  and  he  began  to  set  my  feet 
in  new  paths  of  literature  and  understanding. 

"You  have  much  too  good  a  mind  to  waste — You'd  far  better  study  more  and 
work  less  in  Mission  or  Sunday  School;  the  ignorant  and  criminal  need  lessons 
from  quite  a  different  source.  You  can't  afford  to  spend  yourself  as  you  are  doing. 
Haven't  you  a  higher  ambition?  What  do  you  suppose  it  all  means  in  the  end? 
Here  and  there  with  such  limited  vision;  or  is  it  personal  as  I've  heard  stated?" 

For  the  last  few  months,  incited  by  the  ardent  Missionary  zeal  of  Axtel  Keane, 
a  young  Banker,  who  seemed  to  rate  my  services  very  highly,  I  had  taught  for 
him,  and  in  his  company  occasionally  visited  the  poor  whom  he  was  helping. 
Finally  he  had  claimed  me  regularly  in  that  field  of  uphill  labour,  and  confided 
hopes  and  wishes  for  the  world  in  general,  and  his  Mission  in  particular. 

Looking  back  upon  that  period  I  have  often  wondered  over  my  blindness  at 
first.  I  did  not  appreciate  the  meaning  of  his  singular  devotion  which  continued 
so  long,  whatever  the  interval,  and  without  any  formal  declarations.  I  was  grati- 
fied at  his  praises  and  marked  partiality,  always  resumed  whenever  we  met  again, 
no  matter  how  long  the  separation;  and  yet  years  passed  without  the  inevitable 
climax  that  urged  me  to  consecrate  my  days  to  the  same  sacrificial  labours. 

His  faith  was  great,  and  he  was  insistent  that  I  was  amply  qualified  to  carry 
on  the  Lord's  work,  and  that  wearing  his  name,  success  would  crown  his  efforts 
in  a  blessed  life-union. 

That  did  not  appeal  to  me  in  my  more  advanced  periods  of  experience,  but 
it  had  seemed  natural  to  correspond,  whenever  away  from  him,  although  his 
epistles  were  mostly  discussions  of  the  purposes  of  The  Most  High  with  which 
he  ever  seemed  familiar.  As  he  argued,  at  last  he  called  all  of  the  Scripture  to 
witness,  that  self  immolation,  severe  discipline,  and  unfailing  service  was  what 
The  Almighty  demanded  of  us.  It  was  the  poor  that  we  had  always  with  us  and  our 
duty  to  them  was  clearly  indicated. 

The  chasm  between  us  always  widened,  and  after  a  repeated  refusal  to  accept 
or  listen  to  further  arguments  and  protestations,  I  asked  him  for  my  letters. 
Upon  the  outside  of  the  rather  bulky  package,  which  was  finally  returned,  he  had 
written  two  significant  words — "Seven  Years'" — and  that  explained  considerable 
I  don't  care  to  dwell  upon. 

But  for  Dr.  Bevan's  appearing  as  a  guide  upon  the  scene,  supplying  fresh  food 
for  thought  and  effort,  and  my  Mother's  awakening  to  what  the  association  and 
Mission  was  leading,  I  might,  at  that  early  stage,  have  been  carried  away  by  the 
idea  of  sacrifice  or  the  suggestion  of  martyrdom. 

Under  the  Doctor's  guidance,  I  began  to  read  with  greater  intensity  of  interest. 
I  grew  quite  impressed  with  the  idea  of  responsibility  to  the  world  at  large;  horizons 


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uplifted;  I  listened  to  large  talk  of  the  integrity  of  the  race,  of  freedom  from  dog- 
matism, of  intellectual  independence  of  view,  or  aspirations  toward  a  wider  life, 
and  I  became  ashamed  of  my  narrowness  and  orthodoxy. 

The  mere  joy  of  living  had  heretofore  been  enough,  and  I  had  accepted  every- 
thing without  question;  but  someway  the  conviction  grew,  that  I  was  like  a  plant 
needing  more  air  and  water;  and  must  cram  my  brain  with  knowledge,  and  make 
ideas  germinate  there.  As  I  read  the  books  he  furnished,  I  longed  to  take  pilgrim- 
ages to  Greece  and  Italy,  Spain  and  France,  where  I  might  know  the  treasures 
of  Art  and  Beauty,  and  gain  a  richer  inheritance.  I  did  not  define  it  then,  that 
he  tried  to  put  me  in  more  direct  contact  with  the  Divine  Forces  of  nature,  for  it 
seemed  only  as  if  Providence  had  offered  a  great  chance  to  put  vision  right  and  give 
me  more  exact  notions.  What  was  Missionerying  in  comparison?  I  began  to  feel  as 
if  I  had  been  only  a  spoiled  creature,  whose  words  and  deeds  were  not  of  much 
consequence,  and  all  idea  of  "acquiring  merit"  through  Church  or  Sunday  School, 
quite  melted  away. 

When  he  offered  to  conduct  a  course  of  History  and  Philosophy,  I  asked  if 
Elysabeth  could  share  the  privilege?  We  went  to  his  office  weekly  after  that. 
He  had  a  curious  power  of  rousing  our  spirits,  and  the  delight  of  having  such 
oversight,  created  new  currents  of  thought,  attracted  new  forces  of  feeling,  ac- 
celerated the  movement  of  "The  wheel  of  things".  It  was  an  ebullition  of  fresh 
intellectual  and  emotional  life.  The  days  of  that  late  Spring  kindled  some  am- 
bition to  excel,  that  grew  more  definite  as  the  readings  progressed. 

But  my  Music  lessons  began  to  have  only  a  perfunctory  attention,  after  the 
little  prodigy  had  been  sent  to  some  well  known  Master  in  Canada,  or  across 
the  Sea  and  I  saw  little  Ernst  no  more.  I  ceased  to  congratulate  myself  on  marked 
progress  anywhere,  growing  a  bit  modest,  and  having  lost  all  idea  that  I  could 
gain  credit  on  high  by  accustoming  myself  to  romantic  relationships  with  con- 
secrated souls,  or  by  cultivating  illusions  concerning  my  "Prince  Charming." 
The  intimate  contact  we  had  with  a  stored  mind  and  generous  and  aspiring  nature 
pointed  rather  sternly  away  from  the  highly  painted  heroes  of  dreams,  and  made  one 
a  little  more  alive  to  ideal  standards  of  ability  and  nobility. 

I  think  what  is  necessary  to  growth  in  character  and  conduct,  is  that  we  should 
have  the  personal  inner  life  that  abounds;  one's  own  individuality  must  both 
attract  the  good  and  repel  the  evil,  since — "  The  two  powers  are  but  one  pulsa- 
tion of  the  Soul" — and  no  externals  can  direct,  any  more  than  they  can  long 
please,  if  the  character  at  bottom  does  not.  So  no  matter  what  the  tint  of  flower, 
or  lustre  of  sky,  or  breath  of  forest,  or  murmur  of  our  Lake,  they  only  say  noble 
things  to  the  noble.  But  I  did  not  learn  then,  not  for  long  after,  that  my  dreams 
were  only  dreams;  that  facts  were  stubborn  things  and  could  not  be  conquered 
or  evaded;  nor  did  I  realize  the  dangers  always  in  our  path,  that  we  were  so  often 
dwarfed  and  stunted  by.  Now  I  know  that  one's  highest  dreams  can  never  be 
more  beautiful  than  beauty,  and  that  we  can  only  cling  to  what  we  love  best,  and 
revolve  in  thoughts  about  the  best  we  know. 

It  was  after  a  June  day  of  glorious  brightness  that  the  soft  clouds  gathered 
and  fluttered  as  the  night  came  down  in  a  filmy  roseate  loveliness.  All  the  gold 
and  blue  and  purple  seemed  to  dye  the  atmosphere  with  passionate  beauty  making 
me  feel  a   part  of  nature,  of  fragrant   winds  and  arching  skies,  and  of  the  fleecy 

cloud-shapes  over  the  Bummer  waters  of  the  Lake. 

It  was  the  twilight  hour  when  my  Mother  tailed,  and  said  she  wanted  a  private 

talk  with  me.     I  became  mysteriously  excited,  forgetting  all  else  as  she  Bpoke 

quietly      "Your   Uncle   William    has   written,   that    as   it    is  a   short    trip   from    \>\\ 

xork  to  Havre  and  back,  and  as  Kate  is  going  with  him,  they  will  be  glad  to  take 
jrou  across.  Thej  Bail  the  last  of  this  month,  and  if  your  mind  is  still  set  on  it, 
you  can  accepi  your  school  friend's  invitation." 

"What?      Oh    Mother    do    yOU    mean    it?      That     1    can    go    to    I'. iris    and    visit 

( ,u    ie  Mi  (  Ilintoi  I."" 

"The  way  opens,  ii  yov  reall]   care  to  go,"  she  said  gently,    lomethin 


Pi       mi 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


pure  and  tender  in  her  tone;  the  soft  hazel  eyes  smiled  on  me;  eyes  with  a  sad 
look,  that  in  another  would  seem  to  have  harboured  fears. 

There  was  something  at  times  wan,  fragile,  appealingly  tired  about  my  Mother, 
who  never  once  uttered  a  complaint.  I  can  never  recall  impatient  words  or  any 
sign  of  revolt;  always  gentle,  yet  always  powerful  to  wield  circumstance  to  her 
will.  It  was  now  a  consummation  of  her  indulgence.  It  was  like  a  miracle  wrought 
for  my  pleasure,  and  in  my  excitement  something  swept  over  me,  that  blinded 
me  to  all  pangs  of  parting,  giving  me  an  imaginary  affinity  with  startling  realities 
and  wonders  of  the  great  world  beyond. 

What  had  gained  on  me  imperceptibly  in  the  happy  months  of  reading  and 
music  and  the  interchanges  of  home,  I  was  ready  to  exchange  for  the  distant  and 
unknown.  Perhaps  it  was  in  defiance  of  common  sense  or  common  feeling  that 
I  did  not  hesitate  a  moment;  my  glad  spirit  suffered  no  eclipse,  ready  to  recharge 
the  battery  within,  with  a  force  unrecognized;  a  main-spring  of  action  and  en- 
deavour that  would  carry  me  beyond  bounds;  that  in  my  essential  self  was  like 
certain  unrealities  that  had  no  real  diamond  sparkle  of  truth, — but  stirred  life 
in  my  enclosed  garden  of  dreams  at  such  a  prospect  of  travel  and  adventure. 

"I  can  see  how  it  is,"  was  my  Mother's  comment,  even  before  I  had  uttered 
the  longing,  and  thereafter  in  all  the  necessary  preparations  my  enthusiasm  was 
never  once  quenched. 

As  I  look  back,  I  think  she  restrained  Father's  doubts  and  questions,  and 
met  and  overcame  any  objections,  for  the  smallest  and  most  familiar  facts  now 
return  to  rouse  unexpected  trains  of  thought  and  remembrance  that  makes  my 
heart  ache  beyond  words — to  think  I  then,  or  ever  after,  left  my  most  precious 
ones  so  lightly!  Words  now  spring  into  my  memory,  clear  and  articulate  as  if 
they  had  been  spoken  this  very  hour,  and  the  prayer — that  prayer  of  my  blessed 
Father,  when  his  beautiful  voice  trembled  as  he  committed  his  only  daughter  to 
Divine  Guidance  and  care,  in  the  absolute  faith  that  in  him  was  never  broken  or 
clouded.  The  Devotional  morning  worship  at  our  home  was  always  sweet,  be- 
cause neither  too  exacting  nor  too  formal,  or  solemn,  in  any  depressing  sense.  It 
was  wholly  sincere,  aspiring,  and  consequently  a  natural  expression;  the  appeal 
of  love,  never  of  fear.  All  my  life,  every  morning  the  Father  of  Lights  had  been 
asked  to  bless  us,  and  those  prayers  were  answered  in  the  peace  of  our  home.  With 
my  Father  such  profound  religious  belief,  very  sane  and  simple,  lay  before  speech 
and  almost  forbade  it.  It  was  the  daily  round,  in  his  daily  life,  that  he  made 
truly  beautiful  what  he  exemplified.  Light  shone  through  him.  He  saw  truth. 
Verily  "God's  Covenant  was  with  him  of  Life  and  Peace." 

Through  the  intervening  weeks  I  do  not  think  I  had  knowledge  of  dangers 
to  be  anticipated,  or  of  any  possible  disappointments,  or  of  the  long  separation 
involved;  the  awful  dividing  distance  did  not  arise  to  deter  or  appall  me.  There 
was  something  magnificent  about  such  a  journey.  My  eyes  looked  at  the  world 
and  everything  before  me,  in  fearless  eagerness.  Life  at  home,  in  all  its  exquisite 
care  and  provision  for  every  wish  and  comfort,  was  slipping  away  from  me  like 
a  garment.  So  many  little  things  of  arrangement  and  equipment  delighted  me 
while  there  was  being  made  ready  the  complete  outfit  to  meet  all  demands  of  a 
long  voyage  that  then  seemed  symbolic.  In  the  very  caution  there  was  forecast; 
preliminaries  that  sounded  the  note  of  readiness,  and  were  to  my  fancy  stepping- 
stones  and  a  sort  of  rehearsal  that  wheeled  me  out  of  my  daily  rut. 

A  huge  delightful  egotism  was  developing  by  the  experience,  and  in  a  final 
analysis,  made  me  willing  to  undertake  any  number  of  responsibilities  in  any 
unusual  situation  that  would  call  for  courage  and  endurance.  I  felt  fully  ready 
to  venture  anywhere,  competent  and  proficient  however  hazardous  or  extra- 
ordinary the  demand.  I  was  captivated  by  pictured  possibilities,  and  I  enrolled 
and  registered  myself  among  adventurers.  If  imagination  was  becoming  disordered, 
it  only  affected  me  inwardly  with  its  fervour;  I  did  not  betray  my  enthusiasm 
for  the  enterprise  by  extravagant  words  or  set  phrases.  I  some  way  felt  extreme 
expressions  of  delight  would  seem  ungrateful,  but  none  the  less  I  was  affected 


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by  an  extraordinary  fever.  And  happily  the  crossing  came,  about  the  time  my 
nerves  were  flying  about,  like  the  screaming  sea-gulls  themselves. 

At  the  Hotel — It  was  the  Astor  House  in  New  York — my  Uncle  William 
and  Aunt  Kate  were  installed  waiting  for  us;  and  when  Uncle  John  Evans  who, 
having  business  in  New  York,  had  brought  me  on,  left  finally,  with  a  cheery 
"Bon  Voyage",  a  sudden  reaction  followed.  It  became  a  sort  of  tragic  dilemma 
in  a  flash  of  feeling.  Visions  came  and  went  and  haunted  me.  My  Father's  face, 
so  serious  and  sad.  My  Mother,  holding  us  to  outward  cheer  with  her  brave 
smile  and  gentle  cautions  until  we  reached  the  station;  her  courage,  sweetness 
and  self-restraint  and  complete  control  and  unselfishness  shone  forth,  as  they 
confided  me  to  the  care  of  said  Uncle,  and  blessed  me  in  parting.  It  was  Mother 
who  had  planned  and  worked  to  bring  about  that  which  I  had  so  wildly  longed 
to  experience.  It  was  always  so  for  all  of  us,  for  Father,  for  the  boys,  for  me; 
striving  to  secure  for  each  one  of  us  the  best  and  most;  disregarding  personal 
preferences,  and  sacrificing  without  expectation  of  returns  or  acknowledgements. 
Truly  it  may  be  said  of  that  devoted  Mother  "That  her  children  arise  up  and  call 
her  Blessed." 

Those  first  days  of  waiting  I  saw  everything  in  a  different  light.  I  felt,  returned 
to  me,  a  fierce  clingingness  to  home,  a  longing  for  my  Parents  that  grew  stronger 
every  hour.  I  had  to  struggle  with  an  inrush  of  the  inherent  fear  of  not  seeing 
my  own  for  so  long.  It  was  queer — uncontrollably  I  re-acted,  yearning  to  go 
back.  And  I  had  to  reason  and  reason  with  awakened  fealty,  and  to  remember 
that  it  was  perfect  freedom  of  choice,  and  unyielding  desire,  that  bound  myself 
to  go — that  it  was  I — I  alone,  who  had  taken  that  final  decision,  had  hidden  the 
ache  of  actual  parting  with  a  certain  gallantry;  that  now,  by  a  shred  of  determina- 
tion against  suffering,  made  me  feel  that  I  must  not  turn  back,  that  I  could  not 
retrace  steps,  or  reveal  to  anyone  the  pain  that  took  possession  of  me. 

So  I  clung  carefully  to  the  surface  of  things,  trying  not  to  face  putting  the 
Ocean  between  us.  And  I  had  luncheon  with  the  Sims,  saw  several  school-mates 
who  envied  me  my  chances,  and  it  materially  helped  to  hide  possible  outbursts 
or  the  fiercer  feel  of  home-sickness. 

"Fancy",  said  Carrie  Sims,  that  first  day  at  her  house,  which  was  later  to 
become  a  second  home  to  me — "You're  going  across  in  a  great  big  ship  and  the 
Captain  your  Uncle!  What  luck!  And  where  did  you  get  that  ring?  Diamonds, 
I  do  believe." 

And  at  the  name  of  the  beloved  donor  she  raised  her  pretty  brows,  "Oh  Papa," 
for  we  were  at  luncheon,  "do  come  and  look  at  Nina's  ring.  She  says  it  is  from 
her  Mother." 

"She  wears  it  on  the  right  hand,  and  it's  a  very  pretty  hand,"  responded  the 
fascinating  Father  of  my  gay  little  chum,  with  a  smile  that  completely  won  my 
allegiance  for  all  time. 

Who  can  measure  the  consequences  of  a  few  words  or  the  effects  of  a  meeting? 
It  was  indeed  an  event  to  meet  Dr.  Sims,  as  charming  as  he  was  distinguished; 
the  perfect  courteous  Southern  gentleman;  a  brilliant  genius,  a  generous  friend 
and  a  lover  of  wife  and  family.  He  was  ever  thereafter,  through  many  years  a 
beloved,  genial  and  lavish  benefactor  in  the  sense  of  conferring  unstinted  hos- 
pitality, and  contributing  immeasurably  to  future  experiences.  1  le  has  bequeathed 
memories  that  so  largely  in  bygone  days  ministered  to  happiness  by  making  me 
for  long  almost  one  of  his  children. 

At  last  the  hour  came.  The  day  of  our  sailing  was  brilliantly  beautiful.  It 
was  a  line  ship  with  every  comfort  for  the  Captain's  family,  ami  one  passenger 
l'    ide   myself;  he  was  only  a  boy  of  nineteen,   nephew  of  one  ol   the  owners,  and 

not  personally  attractive;  of  Blight  build.  Bandy  hair,  light-eyed,  with  an  air  ol 
conceii  and  forwardness  of  manner  that  antagonized  while  it  betrayed  his  charac- 
teristics and  rearing. 

Out    of   the    prelty    little   Saloon    furnished    with    books,    a    lounge,   easy    eluirs. 

desk,  even  a  Melodeon,  all  fastened  solidlj  to  their  places  there  wen-  two  com- 
fortable little  Cabins,minc  actually  possessing  a  Wed,  i  he  .nine  ol  luxury  then  at  Sea. 

/'  Ktli 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


There  are  experiences,  I  suppose,  for  everyone  that  may  seem  divided  by  some 
impassible  frontier  from  the  rest  of  life.  They  may  cover  a  long  period  or  last 
but  a  moment,  yet  their  magic  may  be  far  deeper  than  everyday  events  or  even 
great  epochs,  and  yet  their  final  impression  like  a  dream.  Many  other  things  I 
have  forgotten  or  worn  thin  with  long  remembering;  but  something  catches  at 
my  heart  whenever  I  recall  the  scenes  of  that  morning.  I  am  plunged  deep  again 
as  if  I  had  just  ventured  into  a  bewitched  and  unknown  land.  The  silence  was 
filled  with  noises,  and  I  stood  speechless  on  deck,  the  wind  of  the  sea  sweeping 
over  us  as  the  Pilot  left.  The  wind  swept  by  me — I  was  alive  with  the  wind — 
with  myself.  I  seemed  to  myself  like  a  shadow  against  the  sky;  around  me  the 
great  heaving  waters,  and  I  stared  and  stared  at  the  empty  sea  or  gazed  up  into 
the  unquenchable  blue  of  the  sky.  Realities  slipped  away  before  almost  unen- 
durable beauty,  and  there  seemed  wrought  in  me  a  sort  of  change.  Well,  alert, 
strong  in  sensation,  yet  I  scarcely  knew  myself;  new  scenes,  new  people  and  new 
thoughts,  and  in  that  new  environment  the  great  spaces — with  wind  and  stars  and 
sun — not  a  moment  of  sickness  or  discomfort,  every  breath  a  tonic,  and  a  sort  of 
passionate  enjoyment  in  freedom  and  the  curious  absence  of  all  tasks.  At  times 
the  strange  solitude  itself,  captivated  with  new  and  strange  sensations,  as  I  felt 
the  breezes  of  the  open  sea,  and  little  thrills  of  happy  emotion  stirred  even  in  the 
hot  sunshine  of  those  July  noons.  The  music  sung  to  my  soul  that  was  singing 
in  the  sea.  I  am  haunted  still  by  the  smile  of  the  moon  upon  the  sea,  the  drowsy 
airs  of  noon,  the  loveliness  of  the  sky,  the  beauty  of  mists  and  clouds,  the  lights 
of  dawn  and  evening,  and  I  live  back  into  the  spirit  chambers  where  seem  to  come 
baptism  and  consecration  from  the  ocean  itself. 

I  was  so  vigorous,  so  exultant,  so  buoyant  with  new  feelings  that  I  could  not 
name,  akin  to  the  subtler,  in  the  two  vaults  themselves,  the  Infinite  Heavens 
and  the  unfathomable  sea.  I  did  not  know  it  then;  but  it  was  unconscious  aspira- 
tion, repeated  and  recognized  in  later  years,  to  live  in  harmony  with  sky  and 
sea,  the  earth  and  the  air. 

From  the  moment  of  climbing  and  being  helped  up  the  side  of  that  big  ship, 
when  I  looked  into  the  brown  eyes  and  felt  the  lifting  strength  of  the  First  Officer, 
whose  firm  hand  actually  swung  me  over  the  rail,  I  received  the  impression  of  a 
body  well-knit  and  erect,  built  along  the  lines  of  strength  he  had  made  so  manifest. 
He  was  above  middle  height,  brown  hair,  brown  lashes,  brown  skin,  with  eyes 
that  smiled  on  me.  He  had  good  features  and  an  ingratiating  manner.  But  I 
looked  at  a  low  forehead  heavily  thatched,  a  close  clipped  mustache,  and  an  eager 
face  that  appraised  and  welcomed  me  when,  at  our  first  meal,  Mr.  Patten  was 
coldly  presented  by  the  ship's  Captain.  "My  First  Officer,  Mr.  Patten,  Miss 
Lunt."    My  Uncle  apparently  had  ceased  to  be  a  relative. 

Mr.  White,  the  Second  Mate,  appeared  reserved  and  very  silent,  with  a  shy, 
almost  embarrassed  manner;  a  trifle  awkward;  but  unquestionably  well-bred  and 
unfailingly  courteous.  I  liked  his  clear  cut  features  and  pleasant  voice.  I  did 
not  realize  that  my  immediate  popularity  was  due  to  causes  that  had  nothing 
to  do  with  personality  or  characteristics;  much  less  with  my  Father's  financial 
success,  which  I  had  but  lately  learned,  was  considered  a  background  of  some 
importance.  My  health  and  ardour  of  enjoyment,  intense  interest  in  their  handling 
of  the  vessel,  and  my  open  desire  to  learn,  resulted  in  willing  teaching;  exercises 
in  the  names  of  sails  and  ropes;  explanations  of  the  cries  and  songs  of  the  sailors, 
and  loud  orders  of  Officers,  when  the  white  wings  were  furled  or  set.  And  there 
was  always  the  fact  of  my  youth  and  sex. 

It  was  a  strange  force  that  bore  us  on  between  sunrise  and  sunset  over  the 
great  waters  under  that  brooding  sky,  under  full  sail  day  after  day.  It  was  a  won- 
derful voyage  of  smooth  swift  sailing,  no  suggestion  of  cloud  or  storm,  and  they 
named  me  "The  Mascot,  the  Sunshine  of  the  Ship". 

Everyone  was  kind — even  my  Uncle  unbent  occasionally  under  the  charm  of 
such  superb  weather;  but  they  all  seemed  to  scorn  my  fellow  passenger. 

He  had  retired  those  first  days,  conquered  completely  by  the  evil  of  sea-sickness, 
and  his  open  expressions  that  "There  was  always  peril  out  of  sight  of  land,  no 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


matter  how  pleasant  it  looked,"  and  "that  nothing  but  water  was  awfully  mono- 
tonous", repeated  frequently,  had  stirred  the  contempt  of  Seamen.  It  was  a 
daily  round  that  cultivated  intimacy  with  each  one  of  the  small  circle,  and  when 
young  Illsley  recovered,  I  talked  long  and  freely,  on  several  occasions  openly 
welcoming  his  appearance.  Once,  when  the  miracle  of  light  and  shadow  seemed  to 
transfigure  the  wonderful  waste  to  mysterious  and  spiritual  loveliness,  I  turned 
to  my  pale  companion. 

"Oh!  don't  you  love  it?    Isn't  it  heavenly?" 

"It  might  be  smoother,  I'd  be  better  pleased  with  considerably  less  motion, 
and  would  find  the  scenery  much  finer  with  land  in  view,"  was  the  dry  response. 
"You  must  be  a  born  sailor  to  stand  it  the  way  you  do,  and  then  rave  over  it. 
It's  all  very  well  to  talk  about  the  majesty  of  ocean  when  one's  looking  at  it, 
but  it's  another  thing  when  one's  on  it." 

I  gazed  at  him  amazed,  and  for  the  first  time  studied  those  small  features, 
retreating  chin,  dulled  eyes  and  curved  lips,  wondering  what  was  behind  the 
narrow  brow  and  underneath  the  curly  light  hair? 

It  was  not  long  after,  that  from  the  door  of  the  Cabin  came  the  Stewardess. 
"The  Captain  wishes  you,  Miss." — And  the  lecture  that  followed  was  as  surprising 
as  undeserved. 

"Why  on  earth  do  you  spend  so  much  time  with  that  young  idiot?  Seems  to 
me  you  might  know  better  than  spending  time  with  that  shallow-pated,  empty 
conceited  boy!" 

"Why!  Uncle  William,  I  must  talk  to  somebody,  I  can't  be  shut  away,  and 
I  can't  keep  still." 

"I  want  you  to  understand  that  my  ship  is  not  a  drawing  room  for  social 
interchanges,"  was  the  cutting  rejoiner. 

"No  danger  of  that  mistake,"  I  instantly  countered,  "nor  is  it  a  dungeon! 
Whatever  it  is  I  am  not  going  to  be  gagged  into  silence" — and  half-frightened 
at  the  look  he  gave  me,  I  continued  in  a  more  respectful  tone — "It  can't  hurt 
the  ship  for  me  to  be  agreeable;  I  love  your  ship,  Uncle  William;  Why  can't  I 
enjoy  myself  on  it?     I've  just  got  to  talk." 

"Well  then,  take  someone  beside  that  callow  fool.  If  you've  got  to  have 
somebody,  take  a  man,"  was  his  withering  comment. 

"Nobody  left  but  Mr.  Patten;  your  Mr.  White  is  afraid  to  say  his  soul  is  his 
own  in  your  presence,  and  out  of  it  seems  to  transfer  his  awe  to  me," — but  with 
a  laugh  and  side  glance — "Thanks  for  permission,  I'll  bestow  my  attentions  on 
your  First  Officer" — and  with  a  return  of  flippancy — "Please  don't  forget  I  am 
obeying  commands." 

"No  speaking  to  an  Officer  on  Watch,  remember  that;  let  Patten  alone  when 
he's  on  duty,"  was  the  closing  order,  as  I  gaily  tripped  on  deck  to  look  out  for 
the  intended  victim! 

It  is  easy  to  yield  oneself  unreservedly  to  moods  of  young  exhilaration,  and 
the  light-hearted  resolve  to  let  myself  laugh  and  talk  with  freedom  gave  me  tre- 
mendous satisfaction.  It  was  strangely  new  and  stimulating  to  be  constantly 
observed,  and  seem  the  centre  of  attraction  or  entertainment  to  three  men.  For 
Mr.  Illsley,  the  moment  he  saw  Mr.  Patten  absorbing  my  attention,  showed  open 
annoyance.  Later  he  became  quite  excited  over  a  tew  slight  rebuffs,  while  Mr. 
White  grew  less  diffident;  more  approachable  and  responsive,  and  on  a  lew  oc- 
casions off  Watch,  opened  out,  ami  spent  the  time  telling  me  of  weird  experiences 
t  hal    were  enl  hralling. 

So   looking   neither   before   nor   after,    I    delighted    in    golden    hours   whenever    1 

could  seize  ami  taste  one  to  the  full.    It  was  amazing  flattery  to  receive  so  much 

notice,   .md    I    did    mil    know    what    trouble   could    spring    from    the    most    harmless 

seeming  friendships  under  given  conditions.  It  is  at  sea  that  people  are  thrown 
thei  a  nowhere  else.  The)  come  under  the  benign  or  angry  influence  ol  the 
and  enter  upon  relationships,  and  frequently    make  friendships,  often  with 

those  whom  one  would  nevei  come  into  contaci  with,  or  ^■^c  for  on  land.  I  found 
'II  caughl  up  .1  nd  swept  along  with  greai  Bwiftness,  quite  unresisi ing  at  I 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


Mr.  Patten  made  plans  for  our  meetings  when  off  duty,  and  I  came  under  the 
action  of  forces  which  I  did  not  even  suspect;  but  that  crowded  new  ideas  into 
my  mind. 

My  Aunt  Kate  was  so  miserably  ill,  that  she  took  no  care  or  thought  of  me, 
and,  as  ample  reason  for  assenting  to  whatever  was  proposed,  I  recalled  my  Uncle's 
permission,  who  seemed  to  wholly  forget  me.  I  often  sat  out  late.  Moonlight 
at  sea  brought  thrills  to  the  imagination  that  gave  to  the  silvery  expanse  its  con- 
summation of  grandeur.  It  was  transfiguring,  and  seemed  to  transfer  one  to 
another  planet.  And  all  the  myriad  harmonies  of  sunsets  and  dawns,  the  dazzling 
light  and  sparkling  heat  of  noon,  the  cool  illumination  or  heavy  shadows  of  evening, 
united  to  cultivate  a  warmth  of  interchange  and  understanding.  The  wild  tales  of 
sea  life,  of  vast  spaces  and  wide  horizons,  and  the  mystery  of  unfathomed  ex- 
periences, allured  me,  until  often  as  he  talked,  standing  very  near,  a  certain  soft 
pleading  in  voice  and  manner  became  a  pleasure  to  my  musical  ear. 

Standing  only  on  the  threshold  of  knowledge  in  regard  to  affairs  of  the  heart, 
I  felt  only  awakened  curiosity  and  aroused  interests  in  the  flattering  sense  of 
unrealized  power  that  his  looks  began  to  challenge.  No  cry  of  the  heart,  and 
yet  a  drinking  deep  of  the  cup  of  enjoyment.  The  still  small  voice  of  common 
sense  did  not  warn  me;  I  loved  the  sense  of  approval,  of  admiration,  of  manifest 
desire  for  my  presence;  the  novelty  of  the  sensation  of  yielding  to  his  daily  summons 
by  look  or  word,  grew  into  a  habit  without  startling  me.  He  was  respectful  to 
the  point  of  deference;  he  was  gentle,  but  growingly  masterful. 

Impulse  is  rooted  in  the  basic  elements  of  certain  characters.  I  did  not  once 
set  him  at  arms  length,  but  instead  answered  readily  to  demands  that  I  did  not 
try  to  interpret.  It  was  openly  an  unjustifiable  acceptance  of  all  his  overtures 
to  friendship,  that  had  slowly  developed  into  a  sort  of  special  relation,  which  he 
had  hitherto  never  taken  advantage  of,  nor  once  made  me  feel  awkward  or  ashamed. 
It  was  heartiness,  cheer,  and  comradeship  to  me,  and  at  the  end  of  two  or  more 
weeks  of  this  good  fellowship,  and  more  or  less  constant  intercourse,  I  had  admitted 
a  stranger  into  a  Sanctuary  of  thought  and  feeling,  hitherto  sacred  and  closed. 
And  yet  we  were  always  on  legitimate  ground.  He  had  not  trespassed  or  appropri- 
ated a  single  privilege,  only  to  indicate  the  best  trysting  place  when  he  was  to  be 
off  duty,  which  seemed  an  open  demand,  but  was  not  noticed  or  commented  upon, 
except  by  some  unpleasant  remarks  of  Illsley's.  There  was  a  rare  element  of 
persuasiveness  difficult  to  resist,  an  assured  manliness  not  easily  withstood.  He 
made  me  feel  and  delight  in  his  marked  preference,  while  a  certain  reticence  had 
kept  it  in  check  and  proved  a  sure  means  of  dispelling  reserve. 

They  speak  of  a  child's  Divine  lack  of  worldly  wisdom — I  do  not  know — only 
that  I  had  not  outgrown  the  thrills  of  high  resolve  and  of  romantic  longings. 
At  seventeen,  sheltered  and  loved,  I  had  never  visited  the  cave  of  that  stern 
Egeria,  Worldly  Wisdom.  I  had  a  transparent  faith  in  others  and  I  was  very 
easily  deceived.  It  is  pathetic  to  believe  implicitly  all  assertions  emphasized 
by  personal  look  or  touch.  Mine  was  an  importunate  heart  and  will  that  made 
unconscious  response  to  his  ardour,  and  felt  only  as  a  compliment  his  constant 
yearning  for  my  companionship.  I  was  strong,  only  in  the  strength  of  my  own 
self-confidence,  and  could  never  realize  that  I  had  not  attained  self  knowledge. 
Men  were  not  known  to  me,  the  complex  social  unit  remained  an  uncharted  country, 
and  in  a  sense  I  saw  all  men,  as  it  were,  vaguely  through  a  golden  mist.  Nothing 
had  occurred  to  daunt  me  or  hamper  my  straight-forward  actions,  and  so  far  I 
had  received  neither  directions,  warnings,  nor  reproofs,  but  sailed  on  the  emo- 
tional sea  recklessly,  with  the  same  confidence  I  felt  in  the  vessel  that  was  rapidly 
bearing  us  to  foreign  shores.  I  thought  I  was  simply  attuning  myself  to  the  key- 
note of  the  whole — natural  instincts  asserted  themselves,  a  love  of  praise  developed 
into  a  necessity  for  it;  there  was  a  growing  attraction  that  made  me  succumb 
to  his  homage,  and  unconsciously  surrender  without  open  terms.  It  was  inde- 
fensible, but  I  did  not  know  that  I  was  slowly  capitulating  to  his  call;  I  never 
once  reeled  back,  because  there  was  never  a  single  affront  offered. 

The  in-dwelling  loveliness  of  sea  and  sky  was  always  about  us  and  stirred  me 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


to  emotional  depths.  They  pronounced  it  a  wonderful  crossing — not  a  cloud; 
sunshine  of  dripping  gold,  and  softest  wind  blew  us  on  our  way.  My  Uncle  said 
once — "that  I  had  a  quicksilver  temperament  and  kept  the  Barometer  high." 

That  I  became  pliant  to  the  point  of  non-resistance  undoubtedly  appealed, 
and  urged  him  to  seize  chances  for  intimacy.  Barricades  were  coming  down  and 
the  way  forward  into  the  unknown  opening  before  me.  He  had  said  and  done 
nothing  unusual  when  there  came  a  night  and  an  hour  that  broke  down  reserve. 
It  was  my  fault  and  my  stupidity  that  precipitated  the  scene. 

The  night  was  very  dark  and  he  stood  leaning  on  the  rail  beside  me,  while 
I  gazed  down  into  the  black  depths,  not  even  star-lighted,  as  he  described  a  fright- 
ful gale — and  at  my  light  remark — "If  one  could  only  be  washed  up  on  a  fruitful 
Island  like  those  we  read  of  in  the  South  Seas,  in  good  company,  to  be  wrecked 
might  be  good  fun." 

"I  would  like  to  be  there  alone  with  you,"  was  the  swift  response — "Would 
you  care  for  me  then?"  he  fatuously  concluded. 

I  was  never  cautious  of  spending  enthusiasm  when  imagination  was  at  the 
maximum,  and  he  had  never  said  or  done  before  anything  unusual.  My  mind 
seemed  impossible  to  escape,  but  some  sudden  emotion  bordering  on  fear  gave 
me  curious  thrills. 

"Would  you  like  it?"  he  persisted,  and  before  I  could  get  composure  to  speak, 
his  arms  were  about  me. 

I  seemed  to  be  taken  up,  lifted  up,  and  for  one  paralyzing  second  I  could  not 
deal  with  feeling  by  any  common  process.  He  held  me  unrelentingly.  It  felt 
like  some  smothering  hold  and  the  sense  of  outrage  revolted  me.  I  lost  grasp  of 
the  situation,  because  I  could  not  deal  with  it,  quivering  with  a  passion  of  anger. 
Inarticulate — finding  I  was  not  instantly  released — I  struck  at  him  madly,  whisper- 
ing incoherently — "I  hate  you — Let  me  go  or  I  shall  scream" — and  his  arms 
dropped. 

Instinctively  I  knew  the  slightest  sound  of  distress  that  meant  discovery  would 
disgrace  and  ruin  him,  for  if  presumption  were  even  surmised  the  result  would 
be  awful  trouble  for  us  both.  It  was  out  of  a  desperate  recoil  that  I  repeated — 
"I  hate  you, — I  hate  you — Don't  dare  to  speak  to  me  again." 

It  was  my  total  lack  of  sophistication  that  brought  things  to  that  climax, 
my  foolish  blindness  to  palpable  facts,  my  utter  belief  in  the  spontaneity  and 
chivalrous  devotion  unknown  and  unmeasured  that  I  had  no  right  to  accept  or 
encourage.  And  out  of  a  depth  of  revolt,  he  became  instantly  like  a  total  stranger — 
an  object  of  aversion.  I  was  frightened  and  breathless,  and  turning  to  escape  he 
caught  me  as  I  staggered,  and  whispered  humbly — "You  must  forgive  me;  You 
must  have  known  how  I  felt;  Don't  be  angry  because  I  couldn't  help  it, — This 
voyage  is  the  greatest  of  my  life;  You  make  everything  different;  Let  me  tell  you, 
I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for  the  world.  Don't  change  to  me,  I'll  do  anything  to  please 
you,"  and  he  seized  my  hand  and  kissed  it. 

That  act  of  gallantry  relieved  in  a  measure  the  strain  of  the  situation.  "If 
you  will  promise  never  to  do  it  again,"  I  said  in  smothered  accents,  trying  vainly 
to  recover  dignity — All  my  cherished  illusions  gone,  for  I  could  not  create  him 
Hero  enough  to  warm  to  his  appeal.  He  had  made  me  shrink  physically,  and 
mine  was  an  utter  inability  to  conform  to  the  rules  (if  the  game  called  flirtation. 

It  had  afforded  me  no  amusement  to  feel  his  embrace  —  It  doubtless  had  to 
him,  and  I  was  becoming  amazingly  aware,  as  I  listened  id  declaration  and  pro- 
testation, that  perhaps  the  experience  was  not  one  (if  the  wonders  of  the  world; 
Only  a  commonplace  event  to  stir  and  to  jingle  in  the  brain  when  one  was  working 
lip  or  off  the  effects  of  emotion. 

M'    Was  still  talking      "Just   the  si^'ht   of  you  on  i  his  ship  means  a  lot   to  me 
I    just    have  to  Watch  you;  I   want   you  near;   I   want   to  hear  JTOU  talk      S.n    il      s.iv 

von  understand  me  that  you  know  I  wasn't  to  blame  that  you  know  1  couldn't 
help  ii." 

Il<  was  very  primitive  in  plain  speech,  ven  common  in  expression,  had  lost 
romance  in  m)   sight,  but    omehow  held  me  b)   hi--  inexhaustible  energy.     He 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


was  elemental,  almost  savagely  so,  but  before  that  hour  of  revelation,  had  seemed 
invariably  grateful  and  gentle,  filling  me  with  a  sense  of  pride  and  responsibility 
that  was  a  part  of  my  own  idealism  and  ignorance.  His  hitherto  restrained  love- 
making  had  been  a  delightful  deference  and  devotion,  that  I  had  welcomed  as  a 
sort  of  miracle.  Wholly  unaware  that  he  could  not  be  gifted  with  imagination,  and 
would  naturally  take  all  kindness  as  permission  to  break  bounds.  No — No  he  was 
not  to  blame,  as  he  had  just  openly  declared,  and  there  was  no  excuse  for  me. 

Yet  from  that  definite  experience  I  shrank  away.  It  was  inevitable  that  he 
could  not  understand  my  recoil;  he  had  no  complexities;  to  my  unsophisticated 
eyes  he  had  before  been  as  open  as  running  water, — Now  all  suddenly  he  became 
an  unexplored  bomb,  and  I  began  reproaching  myself  absurdly,  believing  he  was 
a  poor  agonized  human  being  that  would  never  recover  from  the  wrong  I  had 
been  guilty  of  inflicting!  I  began  to  explain  him  to  myself,  and  the  hushed  sounds 
and  unplumbed  emotions  that  had  been  so  far  off  and  unknown,  began  to  clamor 
like  invisible  things,  unawakened  emotions  that  surround  us  all  either  as  visions 
of  happiness  or  nightmares  of  horror!  A  lawless  energy  of  feeling  threatened  to 
close  down  on  me,  and  yet  distaste  still  shook  me;  rebellion,  all  the  more  stabbing, 
because  of  the  sudden  quenching  of  confidence  and  self-mastery. 

The  girl's  dream  of  conquest  and  pleasure  had  fled,  the  gifts  I  had  bestowed 
willingly  now  lacked  the  stimulating  touch  that  had  led  me  on  and  given  me 
some  inspiring  moments.  It  was  all  romantic  nonsense  from  start  to  finish  that 
could  readily  fade  into  nothing — but  I  did  not  know  it.  I  was  too  mysteriously 
excited,  and  felt  somehow  vaguely  as  if  I  had  crossed  the  threshold,  and  established 
a  new  order  of  life,  almost  a  new  tradition. 

The  foundations  of  a  character  laid  in  early  youth  hold  the  future  in  solution. 
There  had  been  tense  moments  of  reality,  and  I  believe  that,  "Verily!  the  life  of 
the  soul  is  as  to  intensify  rather  than  duration!" 

The  next  day  I  avoided  the  decks  at  stated  hours.  I  encouraged  Mr.  Illsley, 
when  Mr.  White  was  on  duty,  to  such  an  extent  that  he  never  left  my  side,  and 
flaunted  most  conspicuously  his  gratification.  Visions  of  home,  and  what  they 
would  think,  swept  over  me;  and  far  off  and  indistinguishable,  I  felt  the  strangely 
familiar  call  of  my  own  Lake.  Its  waves  had  voices,  and  a  new  sense  of  loneliness 
and  fear  and  dread  crept  near. 

Youth  does  not  formulate  its  thoughts  very  clearly,  fancies  swing  hither  and 
thither,  and  often  one  is  spell-bound,  an  absurd  dreamer  dwelling  in  unrealities; 
striving  to  colour  everything  with  something  fervent  and  frantic  in  its  power 
to  stir  and  stimulate. 

Until  we  made  port  there  was  a  continued  effort  to  work  upon  my  vanity, 
to  awaken  faith  and  compassion  by  an  utter  sadness  of  glance  and  appeal.  Any 
hour  that  we  passed  each  other,  and  across  the  table  at  meals,  as  if  I  were  a  unique 
being,  I  was  keenly  aware  of  the  man's  constant  observation.  There  was  no 
laughter  left  in  his  brown  eyes,  but  about  him  hung  the  glamour  of  mystery;  his 
dark  good  looks,  his  daring  and  earnestness  constantly  in  exercise.  It  only  blurted 
into  words  in  farewell  exchanges  as  we  docked  in  harbour. 

"You're  coming  back  with  us? — Fate  is  kind — we  can't  escape  our  destiny." 

To  get  back  usual  avocations  had  been  like  awakening  from  some  feverish 
dream,  but  nothing  gave  me  full  release  or  forgetfulness.  There  was  a  charm  which 
I  could  not  escape  in  his  audacity — for  he  seemed  to  defy  the  very  elements  and 
scorn  all  dividing  barriers.  The  whole  Ocean,  as  a  great  Shield,  seemed  held  in 
suspense  to  await  a  further  signal. 

It  was  my  daily  habit  to  read  aloud  mornings  to  my  Uncle's  wife.  The  first 
fortnight  she  had  been  always  in  bed  or  on  the  couch.  Now,  the  nineteenth  day 
out,  it  was  the  morning  after  my  upheaval,  she  sat  in  a  low  easy  chair  with  sewing 
or  embroidery,  and  had  seemed,  the  last  two  days,  unusually  restless  and  disturbed. 
I  attributed  it  to  illness,  but  this  time  she  was  distinctly  nervous,  and  throwing 
down  her  work  said  excitedly — "My  nerves  are  on  edge — I  am  in  such  trouble, 
Nina,  I  want  you  to  help  me." 

And  at  my  startled  look — "There  is  something  everyone  else  knows  on  the 


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ship,  and  if  you  don't,  you  must  be  very  unobserving.  That  Stewardess  has 
deceived  us.  She  was  eager  to  get  to  England  and  cross  with  her  husband.  William 
likes  the  Steward,  he  has  been  with  him  for  several  voyages,  and  as  he  urged 
the  engagement  of  his  wife,  and  both  of  them  deliberately  lied  as  to  dates,  we 
never  suspected  the  danger.  I  have  watched  lately,  and  she  is  no  longer  equal  to 
any  service,  she  fainted  yesterday,  and  lied  about  that." 

"What  is  it!"  I  asked,  in  an  awed  whisper,  "not  that  you  think  she  will  be 
sick  on  board — Mercy!  how  dreadful!" 

"Exactly,  that's  what  I  fear.  It's  an  awful  risk — We  won't  get  a  Pilot  until 
tomorrow.  Every  hour  is  a  menace,  and  we  are  nearly  two  days  from  Havre. 
What  shall  I  do?  It  is  dangerous.  I've  been  reading  those  awful  medicine  books 
until  I  am  frightened." 

Then  she  laughed  at  my  appalled  gaze,  "You  are  as  pale  as  a  ghost — It's  no 
use  to  tremble  and  be  miserable  in  advance,  but  I  couldn't  wait  any  longer  to  tell 
you." 

And  now  the  clouds  of  fear  of  the  unknown  almost  destroyed  the  fears  en- 
gendered by  the  known,  in  the  experience  of  the  night  and  day  before, — the  re- 
collection of  which  gave  me  a  growingly  acute  distaste.  It  was  instantly  mini- 
mized and  dispelled  by  absorbed  attention  all  that  day,  in  dread  of  a  climax  of 
woe  for  the  poor  Stewardess. 

I  had  retired  early,  that  night  of  danger,  but  hardly  had  terrors  been  hushed 
in  slumber,  when  a  hand  fell  heavily  on  my  shoulder,  and  in  a  chill  of  fright,  I 
heard  the  unmistakable  words.  "Dress  quickly — she's  desperately  ill — they 
have  brought  her  into  the  Saloon." 

She  lay  on  a  pile  of  mattresses — left  there  to  my  Aunt's  services  and  mine. 
That  marble  pallor,  those  eyes  of  agony  and  the  loose  hair  floating  like  a  mist — 
that  hair  which  I  cannot  forget,  thick,  blacker  than  jet,  and  as  if  never  again 
could  brush  or  comb  tame  its  wildness.  It  touched  every  spring  of  sympathy 
in  me,  and  made  me  revolt  against  the  cagings  and  cruelties  of  life. 

I  thought  of  all  the  people  that  live  on  this  great  earth,  and  for  the  first  time 
it  swept  over  me  to  ask — What  does  the  soul  or  body  of  one  woman  count?  Life! 
Did  the  secrets  of  its  power  lie  in  suffering?  Who  was  there  to  champion  or  save 
us?  And  how  could  I  ever  feel  quickened  or  sweetened  by  Sun,  or  Wind,  or  Rain, 
or  any  vision  of  natural  beauty,  if  fellowship  with  such  forms  of  suffering  was 
demanded  for  truest  vision?  There  was  something  drawn  across  the  trail  of  our 
worth  to  the  world,  and  Oh!  how  hard  to  learn  the  gift  of  God  or  feel  the  smile 
of  his  angels!  I  shivered  with  terror,  trying  to  get  a  grip  on  myself,  to  force  re- 
solution to  stay  and  keep  watch,  to  do  my  full  share  to  help  my  distracted  Aunt. 
But  how  could  I  keep  my  heart  from  bursting  seeing  unrelieved  distress? 

Hours  later,  she  said  to  me  so  kindly,  "Do  go  on  deck  awhile,  Nina,  you  must 
get  courage  before  coming  back.    Stay  in  the  air  until  I  call  you." 

I  breathed  deeply  again  while  something  choked  in  my  throat.  I  suppose  out 
of  my  great  pity,  my  hatred  at  sight  of  unrelieved  pain,  it  came  over  me  how  main- 
shadows  there  were  on  earth  and  how  many  dwelt  in  them.  I  looked  up  so  hungrily 
into  the  dark  Heaven  of  the  mysterious  night,  and  how  dreadful,  1  thought,  to 
walk  in  darkness,  to  keep  pace  with  the  midnight  in  its  swift  unceasing  silent 
march  around  the  Globe.  Forever  and  forever,  meridian  by  meridian  sweeps  the 
midnight,  from  Orient  to  Occident  in  dark  procession,  and  its  utmost  brightness  is 
t  he  lighl  of  stars! 

I  could  U01  definize  nor  understand  my  own  sensations,  but  out  ol  that  in- 
finite whirl  of  pain  there  had  come  knowledge,  that  only  Lighl  is  strong  and  pure 
and  char  and  joyous,  anil  that  there  was  nothing  new  under  millions  OJ  Suns. 
It  is  BO  with  millions  of  Mothers,  and  yet  they  rejoice?  \)^  we  then  cost  such 
uffering  lining  the  winds  of  Life  and  Death'.'  The  twin  Angels,  both  asking 
tribute,  both  symbolizing  yearning  and  anguish!  To  face  death  in  resignation  as 
price   for   the  attainment    of   that    joy       to  seek   a    happiness   th-it    Nature  gives   her 

children  bj  making  of  every  man  an  Adam  and  everj  woman  an  I 

Tin    i    .1  \r,\  simple  narrative  of  what  h  daily,  hourly,  everj  moment 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


somewhere  in  God's  world,  but  to  my  ignorance  it  had  taken  on  terror  as  well  as 
mystery,  and  could  not  be  transmuted  into  what  is  beautiful,  until  I  remembered 
my  Mother's  face  when  I  was  taken  into  that  darkened  chamber  and  saw  her 
radiant  smile.  Only  four  years  old — I  looked  down  at  the  little  bundle  in  the 
hollow  of  her  arm.  My  brother  Horace — My  little  brother!  Verily!  I  saw  love 
Divine  and  love  Human,  both  alike  made  manifest. 

The  ship  was  forging  ahead  under  full  sail  eagerly  and  anxiously  awaiting  the 
Pilot,  and  the  whole  Crew  knew  that  if  the  day  brought  no  help,  the  Steward's 
wife  must  die.  Desperate  means  were  to  be  tried  and  numbers  of  the  Sailors 
volunteered  to  row  towards  Port  while  we  anchored  and  hung  outside.  There 
is  an  unquenchable  kindness  in  mankind,  their  eagerness,  shared  by  the  Captain, 
won  consent.  To  save  the  sacred  life  interwoven  with  hers  had  challenged  the 
noblest  and  strongest  feelings  of  all. 

That  picture,  when  in  the  dead  of  night,  the  Life-boat  was  lowered!  The 
Steward  in  the  bows,  the  sailors  bending  to  their  oars  that  sent  the  frail  skiff 
far  from  sight,  while  we  still  caught  the  cheerful  cry  sent  back  that  made  Hope 
leap  and  grow  strong,  is  a  recollection  never  to  be  dimmed.  The  duty  to  be  helpful 
came  upon  me  like  the  suggestion  of  Divine  beauty  and  perfection  of  Divine 
promise. 

When  I  came  back  again  to  the  deck,  hours  later,  in  a  strange  fashion  the  colours 
of  morning  were  changing  before  my  eyes!  the  air  was  fresh  and  fragrant  in  a  sort 
of  unconquerable  sweetness.  The  sight  of  the  wind  swept  spaces  of  Ocean  made 
large  appeal  to  higher  frames  of  feeling.  All  my  wild,  joyous  frolicksome  spirit 
had  been  solemnized.  I  had  received  for  all  time  a  new  vision,  that  vision  of  the 
toll  of  human  life  that  every  generation  must  give.  It  was  a  new  sense  of  pitiable 
finiteness  that  had  come  to  me  as  I  bent  over  the  sufferer  in  that  midnight  hour. 
It  had  made  the  whole  earth  change;  an  earth  made  up  only  of  the  dust  of  people 
who  must  fight  and  toil  and  agonize.  They  had  stalked  for  a  time  like  Spectres 
to  frighten  one,  who  had  before  only  enjoyed  and  loved  and  dreamed. 

But  another  day  was  with  us  again.  It  dawned  in  splendour,  the  colours  of 
gold  and  purple  and  scarlet  and  blue,  and  before  noon-time  beyond  the  calm  and 
luminous  distance  the  boat  was  sighted.  The  Look-out's  cry  gladdened  every 
heart.  The  whole  Ocean  that  had  been  so  bleak  became  ecstatic,  it  sparkled  and 
welcomed  them.     It  was  Life,  not  Death. 

Then  came  from  our  decks  an  uproar  of  delight  as  they  drew  ever  nearer. 
Oh!  that  quick  ascent  over  the  side  of  the  ship  as  the  rope  ladder  was  lowered; 
the  smile  and  greeting  of  the  courteous  Frenchman  as  he  was  met  and  piloted 
to  his  failing  patient. 

And  later  the  relief  and  happiness  shared  alike  by  Sailors  and  Officers,  and 
the  Doctor's  congratulations  to  my  Aunt,  and  smiling  bow  to  me  were  character- 
istic of  his  race. 

Everyone,  rejoiced,  for  the  pain  which  had  seemed  eternal,  was  over;  uncon- 
querable will,  and  skill  secured  in  time  had  availed.  Monstrous  fears  subsided 
and  gaiety  ensued,  for  now  it  was  High  Festival. 

At  the  Feast,  my  Uncle  spread,  charming  Toasts  were  offered  in  turn  to  us 
all,  for  a  Son  was  born  and  joyfully  named  for  the  Captain  of  the  Ship. 

THE    VAIN    EXPECTATION 

Someone  has  said  that  you  extract  from  life  a  double  enjoyment  if  yours  is 
the  creative  mind;  and  from  the  moment  I  thought  of  Paris  it  loomed  to  my  imagin- 
ation; I  picked  up  all  the  first  hand  information  I  could;  I  read  books  of  travel; 
and  I  tried  to  make  it  familiar  to  fancy.  I  could  not  build  any  fairy-stories  round 
myself,  there  were  no  marble  palaces  to  sit  in,  or  any  coloured  tapestries  to  em- 
broider! It  was  a  far  off  world  where  all  the  songs  were  in  a  strange  language 
that  no  one  could  help  me  to  understand.  I  had  expected  that  visit  to  be  far 
and  away  the  greatest  adventure  of  my  life,  and  it  was  a  curious  failure.  There 
was  nothing  exhilarating  to  it.     I  suffered  much  less  from  the  whole  experience 

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of  disappointment  than  one  would  suppose.  I  was  a  high  strung  soul,  happily 
rich  in  actual  possessions;  the  treasures  of  home  and  family,  love  and  protection, 
friends  and  praise;  and  could,  I  found,  bear  things  alone, — I  mean  being  lonely 
at  heart,  and  in  strange  surroundings  but  not  consciously  conquered,  and  not 
for  long  knowing  the  full  meaning  of  failure  or  mortification. 

To  a  certain  extent  I  felt  isolated  from  the  first  moment.  It  was  a  double 
sort  of  family — two  sets — the  widower  had  married  a  widow,  each  having  two 
grown  children,  and,  while  I  participated  or  was  present,  I  made  pictures  of  them 
all,  and  said,  now  they  will  do  this — now  they're  going  to  do  that!  Perhaps  some- 
thing a  little  dramatic  in  me  might  explain  my  entertaining  myself,  even  while 
feeling  an  alien;  knowing  myself  in  a  sense  not  understood,  I  mean,  not  sympathized 
with  or  as  a  welcome  addition.  It  was  like  entering  a  cool  room  after  being  accus- 
tomed to  warm  and  glowing  ones.  My  life  had  always  been  so  free  and  interesting, 
— now  for  an  unknown  reason  the  first  greeting,  as  I  entered  that  pretty  home, 
way  up  near  the  Arc,  out  of  the  Champs  Elysee,  made  me  feel  cramped.  My 
own  simplicity  and  expectation  made  matters  worse. 

I  was  disarmingly  frank  and  unwisely  open  as  to  my  own  likes  and  dislikes; 
and  alas!  I  knew  absolutely  nothing  of  foreign  life,  of  the  etiquette  of  visiting,  or 
the  demands  upon  a  visitor.  And  on  this  first  visit,  anywhere  or  to  anyone,  I 
made  my  way  through  unchartered  space  with  no  sub-conscious  direction. 

In  trying  now  to  understand  why  I  was  such  a  dead  failure,  so  ineffectual  and 
completely  frustrated  by  circumstances  as  never  to  make  one  lucky  stroke  or 
profit  at  all  by  the  experience  which  had  been  anticipated  as  "good  fortune", 
I  think  the  miscarriage  was  due  to  my  never  comprehending  the  necessity  to  sur- 
mount, by  personal  service  and  deference,  what  chained  me  to  my  own  common- 
place little  car  of  individual  tastes  and  wishes.  I  never  tried  to  stem  a  torrent. 
I  did  not  recognize  the  current,  that  like  a  tide,  bore  us  apart;  I  kept  my  head 
above  water,  swimming  alone — and  I  did  not  name  my  own  discomfiture  or  call 
it  a  break-down  when  I  tripped  or  stumbled,  or  was  brought  to  naught  in  that 
close  circle.  I  was  too  uncomprehending  of  the  necessity  of  learning  to  be  adapt- 
able, and  of  slipping  into  a  back  seat  gently.  I  never  had,  I  suppose,  their  view- 
point, and  was  perhaps  too  dazed  to  know  wherein  I  blundered.  I  very  certainly 
made  a  bad  impression,  and  in  some  way  we  were  at  cross  purposes.  Doubtless 
my  perceptions  were  too  clouded,  and  I  too  short-sighted  and  confident  of  myself 
to  realize  my  own  vacancy  of  mind,  and  general  incompetence  to  suit  my  lively 
volatile  nature  to  uncommunicativeness  that  spelled  discomfort,  and  something 
unanalyzable.  I  had  thought  it  was  all  going  to  be  wonderful,  and  the  things 
that  might  happen  had  appealed  to  an  exaggerated  fancy. 

They  were  all  so  polite  when  I  arrived;  but  from  that  first  hour  mine  was  an 
unadmitted  uneasiness;  my  mind  registered  a  vague  disturbance.  I  did  not 
float  in  pleasurable  emotions — quite  the  contrary.  The  taste  of  what  was  new 
and  foreign  was  strangely  spoiled.  Those  first  interchanges  or  experiences  pushed 
me  out  of  myself  into  some  subtle  apprehensivencss,  or  awareness  of  dissatis- 
faction. 

After  the  head  of  the  house  had  asked  for  my  Father,  any  news  of  home,  about 
my  voyage,  and  perfunctory  hopes  that  I  would  enjoy  Paris,  he  hardly  over  again 
seemed  aware  of  my  exist  once,  and  I  felt  a  sort  of  commonplaceness  in  or  about 
rue  that  did  not  please;  and  I  could  not  conform  to  rules  or  habits  unknown,  or  rub 
off  corners,  or  chime  in  with  daily  observances.  1  was  out  of  my  own  orbit.  1 
was  like  a  fly  for  insignificance. 

The  Lady  of  the  house  had  a  half-smile  and  the  usual  greetings  each  day  or 

at    meals,  and  a   perfect    relapse  into  silence.     They   were  all  clover.     They   talked 

of  matters  interesting,  general  or  personal,  but  the  brilliant  globe  of  light  under 
thai  roof  did  nol  touch  or  roach  trie.  When  1  tried  to  be  agreeable,  1  awkwardly 
eemed  to  tramp  against  things,  and  whirl  sidewise  instead  ol  ahead.  It  was 
ai  it  no  one  was  aware  of  m<-  or  sometimes  remembered  I  was  there;  certainly 
they  were  nol  aware  "l  the  strange  impressions  I  received.  It  was  as  il  Life  had 
becom<   something  thai  penned  me  in.    It  was  1101  thai  I  measured  tnysell  ^^\\- 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


sciously,  but  that  in  their  circle  I  felt  diminished;  I  was  small,  and  it  was  my  first 
lesson  in  unimportance. 

Gussie  had  outgrown  me;  her  tall  distinctive  figure,  her  grace  and  dignity, 
her  deep,  dark  eyes  always  luminous  and  always  kind  kindled  admiration  afresh.  I 
had  always  liked  her  seriousness  and  poise,  to  me  it  seemed  the  repose  of  true 
breeding;  manners  clothed  her  like  a  garment.  And  now  her  long  black  hair  was 
piled  in  coils  and  knots  so  that  she  looked  much  older.  Her  beauty  was  not  strik- 
ing, but  her  high-held  head,  and  straight  erect  body  would  always  arrest  attention, 
and  when  interest  or  sympathy  was  aroused  warmth  and  kindliness  added  to  her 
charm.  When  I  sat  beside  her  at  Van  Norman's  I  was  fascinated  by  her  personality, 
and  the  thick  black  lashes  shadowing  those  deep  eyes,  and  the  masses  of  black 
hair  made  her  individual.  Now  I  realized  a  curious  blending  of  the  pride  of  an 
intellectual  aristocracy  and  the  unquenchable  spirit  within. 

I  noticed  she  seemed  to  run  the  establishment,  the  bills  were  referred  to  her 
for  settlement;  that  she  gave  the  orders,  and  that  her  sway  in  all  household  matters 
was  acknowledged;  while  the  titular  Mistress  of  the  house  sat  idly  in  her  easy 
chair  and  gazed  upon  the  world  about  her,  and  me  in  particular,  with  a  steady 
stare  that  was  somehow  disconcerting. 

Soon  after  arrival  Gussie  said  to  me  with  the  low  laughter  that  was  character- 
istic, "What  do  you  think?  Father  had  a  personal  letter  from  Mr.  Lincoln,  asking 
if  he  would  consider  accepting  the  post  of  American  Minister  to  France.  Oh  my! 
Fancy  Ma  in  a  low-necked  gown  at  the  Tuilleries!" 

"Did  he  refuse?"  I  burst  out,  incredulous  of  declining  such  an  honour.  "Oh 
of  course  we  don't  ignore  the  honour,  but  we  are  not  up  to  such  responsibilities 
and  representations,  and  expenses.  Poor  Ma!  She  nearly  had  a  fit  while  we  all 
listened  to  that  letter,  and  the  boys  eagerly  discussed  the  offered  "appointment". 
Her  timidity  made  her  lose  all  sense  of  the  compliment  to  Father — who  only  laughed 
and  reassured  her" — "Never  fear,  Mother  dear — You  won't  have  to  dress  up  for 
Court  Balls  and  Functions!  We'll  be  satisfied  with  Churches,  and  Sermons  and 
Prayer-Meetings — more  in  our  line!"  and  he  cast  a  look  at  the  boys,  who  had 
been  for  the  moment  elated,  that  fully  settled  his  decision. 

It  lifted  them  as  a  family  higher  in  my  fancy,  all  but  the  inefficient  ineffective 
unequal  wife  and  Mother,  without  ambition  or  any  unselfish  spur  in  her.  In- 
stinctively I  knew  all  the  others  would  have  adorned  the  position.  They  were 
brilliant  and  clever,  and  yet  after  my  own  introduction  into  that  circle  everything 
had  begun  to  lack  interest.  I  felt  a  flare  of  delight  at  the  first  view  of  Maria  Emery, 
graceful,  slim  and  pliant;  complexion  of  softest  rose  and  white,  pure  and  pearly, 
the  exquisite  colour  coming  and  going  in  her  cheeks,  and  those  curly  strands  of 
hair  were  a  shimmer  of  pale  gold.  She  was  fully  aware  of  her  blonde  beauty,  and 
not  over-sensitive,  for  it  was  plain  she  coveted  and  enjoyed  notice.  She  was  never 
hurt  or  retiring  under  the  scrutiny  of  other  eyes.  Sleek,  smooth  and  placidly 
satisfied,  she  turned  drab  and  cold,  and  I  felt  claws  somehow,  under  the  velvety 
softness,  that  could  scratch. 

It  was  only  once  that  we  really  met,  and  I  did  not  emerge  unbruised  or  un- 
shaken. Her  prettiness  was  an  outward  visible  symbol  of,  what?  She  meant 
no  riches  to  heart  and  mind,  and  at  the  very  first  I  had  no  wish  to  come  closer. 
The  two  girls  were  so  unlike,  and  the  McClintocks  and  the  Emerys  demonstrated 
friction,  at  times  apparent  even  to  my  inexperienced  eye. 

There  was  a  sort  of  graciousness  in  Gussie  wholly  lacking  in  Maria,  and,  I 
think,  an  unacknowledged  antagonism  existed  between  the  two.  As  for  the 
brothers!  immaculate  young  men,  attired  perfectly,  they  struck  me  as  automatoms 
— conventional,  cold  and  polite.  I  think,  in  a  sense,  while  not  unaware,  I  was 
yet  not  made  especially  uncomfortable  by  their  dignified  aloofness.  After  the 
first  glance  and  bow  whenever  we  met  they  seldom  appeared  to  see  me.  I  pos- 
sessed no  feminine  weapons  with  which  to  move  those  marvelous  males  to  at- 
tention. 

The  Heir  of  the  House  of  McClintock  was  somewhat  lordly  in  appearance 
as  well  as   manner — really  a   handsome  youth,   clothed   in  indefinable   armour; 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


a  sure  assumption  of  unapproachableness  that  gave  him  immeasurable  distance, 
and  to  my  view,  distinction. 

The  younger  one,  the  son  of  the  Emerys,  was  extraordinarily  fair  looking, 
straw  coloured  hair  and  small  features,  and  small  statured;  he  had  his  sister's 
air  of  heightened  fastidiousness,  advertising  the  utter  uselessness  of  comparison 
with  any  other  member  of  his  sex.  He  incarnated  majesty  in  the  male  universe. 
He  showed  his  aloofness  in  the  very  way  he  walked,  as  if  the  ground  were  hardly 
good  enough!  in  the  very  way  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  the  way  he  looked 
at  inanimate  objects,  or  at  me,  he  made  it  all  rather  ludicrous  in  the  last  analysis, 
only  then  it  gave  one  an  amazing  conviction  of  lost  ascendancy. 

That  I  had  always  over-valued  myself  in  the  scheme  of  things  was  a  lesson 
very  slow  to  learn.  Even  the  shining  superiority  of  the  family  I  was  visiting, 
was  obscured  by  my  being  primed  with  memories  that  at  first  I  could  never  believe 
were  illusions;  although  in  that  environment  it  was  growingly  difficult  to  feel 
full  assurance,  as  I  looked  at  them  from  such  an  immeasurable  distance.  Yet 
my  eyes  were  set  like  wide  doors  for  memory  to  enter  in  and  comfort  me. 

There  was  no  grand  adventure  in  anything.  Instead  of  a  fine  show  where  I 
was  welcome  and  could  play  in  it,  it  was  all  a  mixed  up  private  game,  nothing 
in  it  mine,  nothing  shared.  The  people  I  saw  there,  the  few  things  I  could  do  or 
did  pleased  no  one — much  less  myself.  And  often  when  we  were  all  together, 
everything  became  a  bleak  emptiness  into  which  imagination  stared.  It  was 
almost  night-mare  darkness  some  hours,  even  when  I  sat  with  the  girls,  silence 
closing  in  on  us  like  prisoners  behind  immovable  walls.  Gussie's  eyes  of  glowing 
life  flashed  inquiringly,  and  I  have  often  wondered  since  if  she  did  not  ask  herself 
how  she  ever  supposed  me  desirable  as  guest  or  friend?  It  was  all  strain,  and 
increasingly  sure  that  I  had  nothing  to  give  anyone.  They  were  broken-up  days, 
and  yet  very  unbroken,  merely  dull;  and  after  a  while  I  almost  prided  myself 
that  I  didn't  care.     Poor  little  Minnow  among  the  Tritons! 

The  more  carefully  I  ponder  over  the  odd  condition  that  worked  to  shut  me 
in,  and  feed  a  certain  antipathetic  attitude  in  some  of  them,  the  more  I  find  in 
myself  some  reason  for  critical  comment  and  corresponding  mis-interpretation. 
A  few  occasions  continue  to  seem  to  furnish  evidence  against  my  being  an  agree- 
able guest.  For  all  one  knows,  an  invitation  sent  across  so  many  leagues  of  di- 
viding distance  may  have  been  hasty  and  ill  considered.  Possibly,  when  Gussie 
wrote,  the  family  had  not  been  consulted,  or  even  made  aware  of  its  immediate 
acceptance.  Gussie  herself  may  not  have  imagined  so  prompt  and  warm  a  re- 
sponse. It  was  inevitable  that  if  not  desired  my  immediate  appearance  would, 
in  itself,  be  cause  for  something  more  active  than  surprise.  Let  that  account  in 
some  measure  for  lack  of  welcome,  however  well  concealed  by  conventions  and  the 
amenities. 

And  first  my  strangeness,  my  futile  efforts  to  be  at  ease;  my  ignorance  of  the 
language,  my  recoil  from  wines,  especially  the  Vin  Ordinaire  in  daily  use,  which 
made  the  poor  and  always  tepid  water  of  the  Seine  necessary,  and  to  me,  undrink- 
able.  I  hated  that  sour  beverage,  I  hated  the  river  water;  I  longed  for  the  lacking 
luxury  of  clear  cold  water.  The  absence  of  ice,  that  hot  season,  was  painfully 
apparent;  never  in  Bight,  never  in  use,  never,  it  would  seem,  missed;  while  my 
whole  physical  being  cried  out  for  it.  Alas  and  Alas!  I  had  no  savoir-faire,  no 
savoir-vivre  where  the  simplest  hardships  wen-  concerned,  and  an  incident  ol 
one  afternoon  almost  disgraced  me. 

I  sat  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  in  the  little  room  where  1  slept,  and  clenched  my 

hands  and  teeth,  and  felt  a  perfect  baby,  BtrUggling  with  a  mad  thirst.  My  I'tmn- 
tenance    Undoubtedly    indicated    rebellious   distress,    for   as  (iiissie  entered,    to  call 

me  to  Tea     which  gave  me  an  access  of  perspiring  frenzy     she  inquired  sohci- 

tOUSly      "Anything  Wrong      What    is  it      Aren't    you  well'.'" 

My  misery  bursl  forth  with  ill  considered  impetuosity  "Oh.  will  you  let 
me  bu)  some  ice,  it's  so  hot,  and  I'm  just  dying  for  ice-water?"  "Win  certainly, 
we'll  send  oui  at  once"    and  never  i"  my  dying  day  can  1  forget  the  sound  of  the 

(  rai  1. 1 1  Hi'  ice  in  that  i' 1. 1  ,  .1  she  hi  "iir  hi  il  up  l<»  mel  lake  one  famished,  I  drank 
/'.      Il'l 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


in  great  gulps,  and  as  it  slipped  down  my  parched  throat,  before  I  even  said  thank 
you,  I  had  only  the  physical  sense  of  supreme  satisfaction.  I  feel  the  blush  now 
of  sophistication  over  that  outbreak;  Gussie  was  fastidious,  suave,  and  good- 
tempered,  and  the  pink  of  politeness  as  I  held  out  my  glass  for  more.  But  when 
I  got  my  breath,  and  was  cooled  by  those  deep  delicious  draughts,  I  knew  I  had 
lost  out  in  manners,  urbanity,  and  presumably,  good  breeding. 

Life  has  to  teach  one  caution  or  discretion  enough  to  feel  the  ground  well  in 
advance,  and  I  was  never  wary  or  guarded;  and  to  this  day  I  do  not  wait  always 
to  see  how  the  cat  jumps,  or  to  keep  at  a  sufficiently  respectable  distance  when 
warned  to  step  out  of  harm's  way.  Had  I  felt  my  ground  then,  I'd  never  have 
asked  relief;  but  there  were  no  after  absurdities  of  that  order  at  least;  and  I  can 
recall  nothing  else  during  my  stay  openly  vehement  in  demand. 

If  I  had  only  known  enough — known  people — known  life,  some  hours  I  would 
have  realized  I  was  being  played  upon  by  the  Emerys,  and  defended  mildly  by 
the  McClintocks;  as  if  jets  of  hot  or  cold  water  were  sprayed  around  at  intervals; 
but  it  was  all  in  a  language  I  did  not  understand,  as  foreign  as  the  French  tongue 
itself  in  which  many  of  the  remarks  were  made,  that  I  was  no  more  outside  of 
than  in  some  of  the  English  sentences.  Many  times  the  young  men  and  Maria 
would  burst  into  a  flood  of  fluent  French  accompanied  by  gesticulation,  and  the 
whole  stream  of  heavily  accentuated  verbiage  used  to  pour  out  and  never  for  an 
instant  conveyed  the  least  shadow  of  intelligible  meaning.  It  was  plain  that 
I  was  not  liked  some  way,  never  in  any  sense  one  of  them — and  never  once  knowing 
why. 

And  yet  with  all  my  might  I  continued  to  resist  conviction  of  being  actively 
disliked.  But  the  feeling  grew  of  being  one  person  like  a  Watcher — detached, 
not  included;  and  I  longed  vainly  for  something  to  bolster  up  confidence.  True 
the  temperature  varied,  but  the  sprays  were  more  or  less  continuous,  not  that 
I  recognized  them  as  being  openly  directed  to  me,  although  so  vaguely  uncom- 
fortable. 

It  was  a  family  life  entirely  unlike  anything  familiar,  or  warm  even  among 
themselves;  and,  without  being  able  to  interpret,  I  felt  the  whole  world  could  not 
contain  a  duller  or  more  unattractive  person  than  I.  There  were  no  precious 
things  came  my  way,  as  day  succeeded  day,  but  the  hidden  something  in  me 
never  let  anyone  guess  how  the  blood  ran  riot  with  longing  to  get  away;  for,  before 
the  second  week  of  my  stay,  they  had  no  more  reality  for  me — the  people  I  met 
or  even  the  household  itself — than  the  shadows  of  trees,  or  vines  across  the  street, 
or  vines  upon  a  window-sill.  And  then  such  an  unfortunate  occurrence,  all  due 
to  my  hasty  spirit  that  stands  so  poorly  open  irritation  or  covert  challenge. 

There  were  a  number  of  visitors  that  evening,  several  elderly  men  discussing 
Church  matters  with  Dr.  McClintock,  and  two  callers  for  the  young  ladies.  One 
was  an  American  who  had  long  lived  abroad,  of  striking  presence  and  fascinating 
manners.  He  had  paid  me  the  compliment  of  brief  notice  on  a  former  occasion 
and  as  well  as  it  being  so  exceptional,  I  had  wondered  that  a  man  who  seemed 
old  could  be  so  courteous  and  entertaining.  I  was  growing  accustomed  to  being 
ignored  in  that  bright  circle,  and  had  accepted  it,  so  far,  as  part  of  the  foreign 
surroundings.  He  had  been  spoken  of  in  my  presence  as  a  "Boulevardier,"  in- 
terpreted to  my  inquiry  as  a  "Club  Man",  a  "Man  about  Town";  which  in  my 
ignorance,  made  him  seem  only  more  splendidly  desirable. 

The  other  caller  that  night  was  a  florid  looking,  well-set-up  Englishman 
equipped  for  conquest.  He  was  evidently  a  lately  returned  traveler,  and  they 
hung  upon  his  wondrous  tales.  The  monocle,  which  frequently  dropped  as  he 
talked,  and  was  speedily  and  nonchalantly  screwed  into  place,  amused  and  inter- 
ested me  as  a  novelty.  He  had  a  drawling  voice,  and  judging  from  the  laughter 
evoked  was  unusually  entertaining.  In  a  pause  of  general  conversation  as  one 
hears  his  own  name,  and  it  arrests  attention,  so  his  last  sentence  reached  my 
ears  and  caught  sharply — "Nobody  has  any  polish  there,  they  don't  know  it 
even  when  seen.  Crude! — You  can't  fancy  the  crudeness  and  commonness  of 
Chicago." 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


In  a  second's  flash,  I  remembered  something  derogatory  in  tone  and  sug- 
gestion that  I  had  heard  as  a  child  in  Newburyport;  and  later,  when  first  in  school 
in  New  York,  certain  inuendoes  and  shafts  of  satire  at  the  West  and  Westerners, 
that  I  had  neither  understood  nor  resented.  But  now — Commonness — Crudities 
— the  meaning  was  clear,  and  I  rushed  into  speech. 

"Chicago  is  where  I  live — My  Father  is  proud  of  it.  He  says  it  will  be  great 
and  splendid  some  day;  that  it  is  wonderful  now  for  so  young  a  City.  When  it's 
old  like  Europe  you'll  see! — Why  do  you  expect  the  young  to  be  like  the  old? 
I  suppose  Americans  do  need  polish  badly,  perhaps  most  of  them  are  'common 
and  crude';  that  must  be  why  they  come  to  Paris  to  live,"  which  was  certainly 
an  impertinent  and  personal  fling,  unpardonable  as  was  my  fine  fury  and  raised 
voice. 

For  a  breath  after  that  outburst,  and  crass  disregard  of  convention,  no  one 
spoke;  and  then  the  silence  was  broken  by  Dr. Johnston's  pleasant  voice — "A 
valiant  defender!  I  congratulate  Chicago" — and  I  felt  as  if  I'd  like  to  marry 
that  man  on  the  spot!  He  did  marry,  next  year  as  it  chanced,  a  Chicago  girl 
whom  I  knew  well  and  succeeded  in  making  her  miserable  for  twenty-two  years. 

Someone  has  said  that  part  of  the  richness  of  life  is  that,  whether  History  re- 
peats itself  or  not,  no  single  human  experience  does!  There  is  certainly  always 
a  peculiarity  to  any  separate  happening  which,  I  suppose,  is  what  precludes  the 
same  sensation  twice.  Who  can  say  that  because  a  girl  behaves  herself  in  certain 
ways,  or  because  she  doesn't  behave  herself,  she  is  either  strong  or  weak?  or  has 
either  high  standards  or  no  self-control?  If  no  situation  ever  developed  which 
made  it  natural  or  entirely  worth  while  to  misbehave  sometimes,  wouldn't  it  be 
a  world  without  thrills? 

I  was  like  a  fighter.  There  was  a  subtle  change  in  my  whole  attitude  toward 
one  and  all,  and  I  had  for  the  first  time  a  momentary  sensation  of  ascendency. 
It  was  only  momentary.  Everything  seemed  to  become  insufferably  hot,  and 
I  felt  the  approach  of  a  torrent  just  tearing  me.  I  had  nothing  to  say — What 
could  I  say  to  that  courtesy  that  had  breached  the  gulf?  I  was  not  at  all  penitent. 
How  could  I  show  them  regret  for  rudeness,  for  I  meant  every  word.  In  scorning 
Chicago  they  had  attacked  us  all.  The  whole  experience  stuck  long  in  conscious- 
ness, and  it  was  an  insoluble  enigma  why  they  should  seem  contemptuous  of  my 
native  City  and  of  its  Citizens  in  particular. 

It  is  a  strain  not  doing  every  day  something  you  are  aching  to  do;  and  that  I 
could  not  go  forth  at  will,  but  must  await  another's  pleasure  or  convenience,  and 
feel  a  weight  and  burden  on  someone's  time,  had  me  by  the  throat  long  before 
that  interminable  visit  was  over.  And  yet  one  hour  outside  in  the  sunshine  was 
like  a  draught  of  the  concentrated  essence  of  the  Meny-gO-round  life  of  Paris, 
and  helped  me  to  bear  the  monotony  of  many  intervening  days.  The  slightest 
experience  added  to  the  wave  of  general  excitement  of  being  alive,  it  all  appealed 
and  tempted  and  thrilled  me  with  conviction  that  if  only  allowed  freedom  of 
Opportunity,  I  could  see  and  share  and  be  myself.  1  may  have  been  a  creature 
of  extremes,  but   I  didn't  carry  hidden  weapons  about  with  me. 

The  streets  outside  were  so  gay  Paris  was  like  a  string  ol  jewels,  the  crowds 
a  river  of  Life.  Its  heart  was  youth.  Its  sidewalks  themselves,  the  laughing  people 
here,  everywhere;  everything  one  could  see,  touch,  smell  or  hear  gave  keenest 
pleasure;  and  whenever  I  caught  glimpses,  they  were  like  blossoming  flowers 
I  could  not  touch. 

\\  1 1 '  1 1  I  went  out,  Beemingh  seldom,  as  I  recall  it,  1  was  astonished  beyond 
any  celling,  and  yei  in  a  way  it  was  familiar  astonishment.  It  was  like  dreams 
thai  I  could  identif)  myself  in.  Oh!  those  wonderful  pavements,  with  all  that 
ebb  and  How  of  human  traffic,  with  such  bewildering  variety  and  interests.  The 
Boulevards  and  Streets  always  seemed  to  stream  with  people;  talking,  laughing 
and  seizing  happiness  on  the  wing  I  The  Champs  Elysee  was  a  moving  p.  mora  ma  ol 
vhere  pleasure  was  infectious  everyone  enjoying  the  gifts  thai  were 
l.i  v  ish<  d.     I  l<  mged  t"  live  wd  h  t hem. 

The  ihops  and  theati  Mv  eums  and  Churches,  all  that  I  saw  From  the 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


outside,  when  taken  to  and  from  the  American  Chapel,  or  on  short  strolls  week- 
days, fulfilled  an  anticipation  that  neither  words  not  thoughts  could  quite  inter- 
pret. And  yet  always  things  looked  larger,  the  Place  de  la  Concord  was  huge, 
the  great  buildings  towered,  the  monuments  and  fountains  and  statues,  the  pillars, 
the  gardens,  the  Towers  of  Notre  Dame,  the  facade  of  the  Madeleine,  the  frontage 
of  great  Palaces  and  Galleries,  the  perspective  of  the  Champs  Elysee,  the  Arches, 
colonades,  entrances  everywhere  bewildered  me  with  unfulfilled  enchantment;  that 
golden  dome  of  the  Invalides,  the  magnificent  Arc  de  Triomphe,  the  idea  of  France 
itself! — that  I  was  in  Paris,  the  wonderful,  the  beautiful,  always  changing  and 
yet  always  unchangeable,  made  me  at  one,  for  exultant  moments,  with  those  vivid 
evanescent  human  beings  who  gave  to  the  thoroughfares  such  brilliant  life  and 
character.  It  was  an  instinctive  climax  of  appreciation  and  longing,  that  told 
me  the  normal  and  natural  development  of  the  human  race  was  implicit  in  the 
countenance  of  young  and  old — that  those  waves  of  sudden  colour  that  swept  up 
and  down  the  streets,  more  fascinating  than  one  could  give  voice  to,  seemed  to 
show  that  the  world  there  was  a  wonderful  place  to  live  in,  and  that  gaiety  was  the 
note  to  strike.  What  moved  me  chiefly  in  Paris,  beauty  apart,  was  the  calm 
certainty  of  well-being  and  joy  that  appeared  common  to  all. 

It  was  a  very  oppressive  August,  and  one  hot  afternoon,  when  the  summer 
sky  brooded  over  us,  and  the  displays  of  fashion,  the  great  vistas,  the  world  of 
wonders,  only  dreamed  of  from  behind  closed  doors  and  windows,  almost  intoxi- 
cated me,  I  stood  on  one  of  the  little  balconies  and  thought  how  beauty  was  every- 
where outside  the  house;  Art  everywhere,  of  which  I  knew  nothing,  and  History 
so  great  that  had  lately  begun  its  appeal  and  was  drawing  my  impetuous  happy- 
hearted  nature  as  irresistibly  as  steel  to  a  magnet.  Some  help  had  come  in  measure 
from  the  books  I  was  reading.  It  was  the  library  of  a  scholar,  and  Gussie  had 
selected  from  her  Father's  collection  several  works  on  Art  and  History  that  fas- 
cinated me  and  held  me  captive.  There  came  hours  when  I  forgot  small  depriva- 
tions, inexplicable  frictions,  the  unconscious  misunderstandings,  and  tried  hard 
to  grasp  some  of  the  meanings,  the  hidden  truths,  the  great  deeds  of  heroes  and  the 
noble  heritage  from  Artists.  Nothing  put  my  vision  right  or  gave  me  exact  notions, 
yet  the  life  was  so  intense  that  I  felt  it  according  to  certain  affinities  in  me.  I  was 
no  miracle  of  patience;  but  people  get  so  bored  if  you  ask  questions  and  show  less 
and  less  interest  in  you,  and  I  was  learning  slowly  not  to  enjoy  airing  my  own 
ignorance.  We  had  walked  in  the  Bois  once  or  twice,  and  figures  and  light  dresses, 
the  nurses  wheeling  perambulators,  the  uniformed  horse-men  and  the  brilliant 
equipages,  and  smiling  beautiful  women  all  wonderfully  arrayed,  gave  the  sense 
of  discovery  as  of  a  social  or  artistic  Fete.  The  delicate  perfume  of  those  ripened 
woods  was  all  about  us.  It  was  like  hearing  the  songs  of  birds,  breathing  the 
fragrance  of  living  flowers,  with  plenty  of  air  and  space,  which  for  the  moment 
communicated  itself,  and  warmed  one  by  currents  of  sympathy  that  somehow 
made  one  acquainted  with  the  passers-by — a  wave  of  joyful  emotion  was  produced 
in  me,  and  I  wanted  to  exchange  smiles  and  words,  or  join  them  at  little  iron  tables 
set  here  and  there  on  the  ground  under  the  trees.  I  never  entered  any  of  the 
gay  restaurants  where  more  fortunate  people  gathered;  and  I  was  never  once 
taken  in  to  the  dazzling  shops,  whose  windows  I  stared  at  in  passing,  as  one  would 
into  Fairyland. 

One  blaze  of  glory  crowned  the  visit.  It  was  my  awesome  introduction  to 
the  endless  Salons,  the  indescribable  wonders  of  that  great  Treasure-House  of 
Europe — The  Louvre — and  I  afterward  realized  that  I  owed  the  vision  to  a  kind 
inquiry  of  Dr.McClintock's,who  spoke  quite  out  of  a  clear  sky  and  really  startled  me. 

"What  are  you  going  to  tell  them  in  Chicago  about  our  Louvre,  and  other 
great  Galleries?"  I  hesitated — and  then  with  a  quiet  humour  I  hardly  understood 
— "Well!  Yesterday  at  a  book-stall  I  bought  "Views  of  Paris"  and  pictured 
treasures  of  The  Louvre,  and  that  will  show  them  all  I've  seen." 

It  was  that  very  afternoon  Gussie  gave  me  the  unforgettable  experience.  It 
was  in  an  atmosphere  of  tense  excitement  I  looked,  while  she  pointed  out  great 
master-pieces  that  preserve  the  Sacred  Fire  of  Art. 


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As  we  wandered  from  one  great  room  to  another  through  that  wonderful  ac- 
cumulation of  treasures,  I  was  amazed  at  Gussie's  descriptions,  by  her  understand- 
ing which  seemed  to  endow  her  with  surpassing  knowledge,  and  filled  me  with 
increased  astonishment  and  admiration.  No  one  has  a  greater  reverence  for  brains 
than  I,  and  my  unqualified  delight  and  docility  seemed  to  move  her  as  if  she 
devined  an  unconscious  affinity  and  unsuspected  response  in  me  which  made  us 
more  at  one.  One  can  enlarge  the  mental  horizon  by  drawing  out  thoughts  and 
opinions,  and  I  felt  renewed  the  charm  of  Gussie's  cleverness,  her  beauty,  her 
voice  and  her  perfect  manners. 

"Oh,  I  do  thank  you,  you  are  lovely,"  I  said  with  fervor,  "and  I  shall  never 
forget  it,"  and  I  extended  my  hand  impulsively  which  she  pressed  quite  feelingly, 
and  thereafter  watched  the  consequences  of  her  words  and  my  replies  as  if  we 
had  come  together  at  last.  Some  seeds  were  dropped  that  day,  which  would  per- 
haps germinate  and  bear  fruit  in  years  to  come;  certainly  I  found  myself  for  days 
after  more  in  my  element  whenever  Gussie  was  present;  not  thoroughly  happy, 
but  with  a  sort  of  sensation  of  release.  The  unfailing  spirit  of  humour  will  break 
up  the  monotony  of  dull  days,  "as  a  prism  breaks  white  light  into  bands  of  brilliant 
colours." 

The  ideas  which  influence  our  lives  come  largely  from  outside,  and  I  prepared 
for  Church  that  last  Sunday  in  Paris — the  remembrance  of  which  now  suffices 
to  reproduce  the  whole  experience — in  a  curious  mood  of  arrogance.  The  impression 
of  Dr.  McClintock's  eloquent  sermon  has  never  been  effaced.  It  is  true,  that 
apart  from  the  noble  oratory,  there  was  left  little,  but  certain  directions  what  to 
avoid,  what  to  steer  clear  of;  and  I  vaguely  felt,  even  then  at  seventeen,  that 
the  eminent  Divine,  her  Father,  and  all  preachers  and  philosophers  knew  only 
just  about  enough  to  strive  to  offer  courage  and  guidance;  for  however  childish 
my  own  speculations,  or  absurd  my  ventures,  I  realized  that  Sermons  were  only 
seed  sowing;  and  that  it  was  the  great  Brotherhood  of  our  indefinable  world  that, 
once  felt  and  acknowledged,  would  put  a  new  quality  into  life  and  enlarge  our 
outlooks  by  leaps  and  bounds.  This  I  could  not,  did  not  define  to  myself  but  I 
came  away  from  that  particular  discourse  moved  by  earnestness  of  presentation, 
and  tenderness  of  appeal,  for  he  had  painted  Divine  Love  and  Divine  Pity  as 
inspiration  and  benediction  alike. 

I  walked  with  the  others  in  a  state  of  appreciation  that  seemed  like  a  growing 
knowledge  of  beauty,  that  made  me  feel  I  did  not  need  indulgence,  nor  was  it 
worth  while  to  make  further  efforts  at  participation.  I  was  a  bit  uplifted,  radiant 
for  the  hour  without  any  trace  of  embarrassment.  I  had  had  my  share  of  happiness 
that  day,  it  had  affected  me  like  beneficial  electricity.  I  made  promises  to  myself, 
and  that  very  evening  I  received  a  stab  that  almost  drew  blood. 

Maria  scratched,  and  scratched  deep,  and  I  paid  my  debt  with  a  sort  of  furious 
breaking  loose  of  forces.  I  forgot  all  sweetness,  only  the  sensations  of  illness  and 
anger.  I  am  persuaded  that  in  the  state  I  was  in,  I  was  getting  choked  up  and 
blinded,  for  I  used,  figuratively,  every  weapon  I  had  in  mc  to  slash  back.  I  felt 
powerful,  and  she  found  me  an  enemy  worthy  of  her  steel.  I  had  often  watched 
Maria  for  sheer  delight  in  her  prettiness,  and  never  wondered  at  the  sort  of  proud 
proprietorship  that  pervaded  the  Emery  atmosphere.  Her  Mother  had  naturally 
concluded  her  the  most  beautiful  of  created  beings,  and  the  daughter  certainly 
liked  her  own  looks,  and  perhaps  went  as  far  as  her  doting  parent  in  approving 
herself,  all  of  which  was  satisfactory  as  far  as  1  was  concerned.  1  never  called  her 
charmfl  in  question,  BO  why  should  she  have  it  in  for  me? 

Sixty-two  years,  more  or  less,  are  wiped  out  bet  ween  that  da\  an  d  this.  Memory 
queer  thing  and  plays  queer  tricks;  hut  it  etches  that  scene  with  perleet  sharp- 

What  I  said  about  sermons,  1  do  not  know,  but  her  answer,  referring  to  Mr. 
LongBCre,    rather    than    Dr.    McClinlock,   of    whom    1    was    speaking,    called    forth 

sudden  protesl  and  exclamations.    "Oh  there's  no  comparison!    Win!  the  Rev. 
Andrew  is  about  in  the  pulpil  what  he  is  in  the  parlour,  vtr)  commonplace!  and 

I've    never    thought     him    clever."      "Well,"      and    her    VOice    bit    into    me      "He's 


Pagt  /-•" 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


clever  enough  to  size  you  up  and  read  you  pretty  well.  He  says  you'd  never  be 
interesting  to  a  clever  man;  that  you  will  never  be  popular,  that  men  will  never 
in  the  world  like  you  on  account  of  your  sharpness  or  smartness — they  seem  both 
about  the  same  thing." 

It  was  a  paralyzing  second  and  I  looked  at  her,  feeling  a  little  dazed.  The 
young  assistant  clergyman  from  Philadelphia  was  really  impressive  looking,  tall 
and  of  slender  build,  delicate  clear  cut  features,  of  very  blonde  colouring;  he  had 
pleasant  manners  and  a  distinctly  intellectual  cast  of  countenance.  He  was 
classed  in  my  mind  merely  as  uninteresting  like  other  men — lack  of  notice  on  his 
part  would  account  for  much  of  course— and  now  catching  my  breath  in  a  rush 
of  irreverence  and  indignation,  I  addressed  her  flippantly  to  hide  my  chagrin. 
"Much  obliged  at  his  rating  me  so  dangerously  smart;  you  don't  suppose  he's 
really  afraid  of  me?" 

"Afraid!  Andrew  afraid  of  you!  He  only  spoke  of  tongue-lashings  that  he 
hates,  and  that  no  man  would  stand." 

"Tongue-lashings!" — I  repeated  it  stupidly.  "Why  of  course — sharp-tongued, 
quick  answering  back  as  you  do;  men  would  never  stand  for  it,  he  said,  and  they 
hate  pertness,  too." 

Suddenly  the  sunshine  dazzled  my  eyes  and  her  face  swam  in  a  blur;  I  opened 
and  shut  them  very  quickly,  and  fixed  gaze  on  the  glass  doors  opening  on  the 
little  garden  where  everything  for  the  moment  wore  a  mist  of  green.  I  felt  hot 
all  over  but  I  turned  trembling,  I  forced  a  smile,  and  looked  straight  into  those 
light  blue  glassy  eyes  fixed  on  me  triumphantly.  It  aroused  defiance.  I  was  not 
a  bit  chastened;  I  was  enclosed  in  fury. 

"Do  tell  that  Reverend  Gentlemen  he's  safe — I  won't  eat  him — I  don't 
care  for  him — he's  too  tasteless.  It's  no  news  that  I'll  never  be  popular  in  a  set 
like  yours.    You  are  all  uninteresting  to  me." 

My  mind  shut  out  everything  but  the  desire  to  hit  hard,  if  I  could  only  find 
a  break  in  her  armour  of  complete  self-satisfaction,  and  I  wondered  how  I'd  ever 
have  the  chance  to  answer  him  back,  as  the  wave  of  fury  which  swept  away  all 
decorum,  left  me  staring  defiantly. 

Maria  was  speechless,  she  even  looked  frightened  and  without  another  word 
left  me  alone.  For  hours  the  pressure  in  the  atmosphere  was  on  the  increase; 
I  suppose  I  had  hitherto  been  impervious  to  their  snubs,  and  decidedly  too  con- 
versational or  forward  to  please,  but  I  had  neither  felt  nor  dreamed  of  enmity. 
Everything  before  I  came  had  prepared  me  for  intimacy  in  exchanges  and  attitudes, 
and  I  had  never  found  it. 

Openly  and  innocently  had  been  expressed  all  sorts  of  views  and  opinions 
that  had  elicited  no  interesting  nor  interested  replies,  and  producing  no  effect 
it  had  been  impossible  not  to  shift  my  enquiring  glances  and  smiles,  and  make 
some  futile  remarks — for,  accustomed  all  my  life  long  to  an  unrestricted  freedom 
of  expression  and  invariably  to  kind  response,  I  was  bewildered,  and  hardly  knew 
how  to  retire  from  the  field. 

Now  I  remembered  elaborate  scenes  in  the  dining  room  that  would  have 
explained  themselves  to  any  but  a  free-lance.  There  had  been  often  a  cold  steady 
light  directed  toward  me,  and  in  fact  cast  over  everyone  at  the  table,  revelatory 
undoubtedly  to  all  the  others,  but  until  that  moment  of  Maria's  unqualified 
speech,  I  had  never  understood,  had  never  supposed  myself  an  object  of  both 
criticism  and  dislike. 

I'd  never  have  believed  that  I  was  one  who  showed  such  distasteful  sharpness, 
but  as  hour  after  hour  passed,  I  felt  quite  capable  of  "Tongue-lashings",  or  what- 
ever he  called  it,  for  the  August  air  could  not  make  me  hotter  than  his  words. 
"Men  could  never  like  me? — I'd  never  be  popular?"  Well  that  was  worse  than 
not  being  good-looking.  A  short  tempest  of  wrath  shook  me  afresh.  "If  ever  I 
can,  he  shall  feel  my  tongue,"  I  thought,  all  the  time  hating  myself,  hating  myself 
fiercely.  Tremors  began  shaking  me,  and  all  at  once  the  tears  were  running  down 
my  face,  the  whole  world  bleak  and  blurred  and  shadowy!  Why!  that  contemp- 
tuous young  Clerical  had  seemed  rather  ideal  to  me,  a  sort  of  medieval  young 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


saint,  young  and  consecrated.  He  was  undeniably  attractive  to  the  eye,  cruelty 
in  judging  would  have  seemed  impossible;  his  personal  inattention  to  me  had 
never  counted  against  him.    That  was  no  fault;  in  fact  it  was  rather  in  his  favour. 

Romantic  nonsense  fails  when  there  is  no  mutual  attraction  and  the  difference 
in  the  sexes  fades  into  nothing.  That  the  whole  affair  was  amusing  did  not  once 
strike  me,  or  that  it  might  have  no  depth  or  lasting  verity  of  meaning.  How  could 
I  measure  anything  at  that  age,  when  vanity  had  been  struck  in  its  most  sensitive 
spot? 

It  is  easy  to  be  self-controlled,  to  be  brave  and  fairly  just  when  all  is  sunshine, 
and  praise  is  warm,  but  something  had  stung  my  heart.  The  barb  had  stayed  in 
it.  I  had  been  despised  and  plunged  into  a  rubbish  heap;  miasma  was  all  about 
me,  and  no  Sanctuary  anywhere.  Impressions  and  sentiments  had  cut  deep, 
and  I  was  curiously  keen  for  any  approaching  contest.  The  torrent  had  broken 
loose  and  it  rushed  on.  It  was  a  contest  I  knew  I  must  fight  alone,  unaided, 
and  on  my  own  ground,  and  instinctively,  breathlessly,  desperately  I  longed  for 
the  encounter. 

All  my  past  was  like  a  lost  Paradise.  It  rose  up  but  could  not  lessen  the  anger 
which  hypnotized  me  with  ever  renewed  desire  to  strike  back.  I  had  been  laid 
low,  horribly  hurt,  what  could  I  do?  "I'll  show  him,"  was  the  stubborn  inner 
cry — "No  matter  if  I  do  deserve  it — it  was  mean  to  say  that  to  Maria  who  is 
both  pretty  and  popular." 

There  is  a  certain  head-long  impetuosity  that  needs  strong  controlling  force  to 
keep  one  calm  or  from  running  madly  on  the  rocks.  Those  impulses  of  the  will 
for  happiness  or  unhappiness,  peace  or  war,  create  certain  currents  and  disperse 
or  attract  certain  forces.  My  Puritan  conscience,  which  was  in  my  fore-bears 
so  highly  developed,  stirred  feebly  to  make  me  think  there  must  be  some  measure 
of  justice  in  such  contemptuous  summing  up,  but  it  could  not  cool  me  then  or 
turn  me  from  my  purpose.  I  only  coveted  a  chance  to  use  what  he  gave  me  credit 
for,  with  all  the  sharpness  I  could  command,  and  the  opportunity  was  at  hand. 

The  incident  when  I  did  not  hesitate  or  care  to  count  the  cost,  or  try  to  keep 
out  of  harm's  way,  rises  before  me  now  as  an  illustration  of  audacity  and  defiance, 
the  partial  recognition  of  which  at  the  time  did  not  for  a  second  serve  to  bridle 
my  tongue.  There  was  something  inside  of  me  that  kept  calling  to  get  out.  I 
had  a  bursting  sort  of  feeling,  physical  partly,  and  it  was  overpowering  as  I  met 
his  glance. 

I  had  been  sitting  snuggled  up  to  the  tall  window  opening  on  its  balcony, 
trying  to  quiet  myself  in  that  fast  gathering  twilight.  The  young  clergyman  looked 
in,  and  what  had  seemed  slowly  cooling,  instantly  blazed  into  living  fire.  The 
torrent  of  flame  came  up  against  a  boulder  or  some  sensory  obstruction,  but  leaped 
forth  breathlessly — "Oh  do  come  in,"  I  called  with  tremulous  efforts  to  smile, 
which  I  flattered  myself  was  alluring,  "I  want  to  tell  you  how  I  enjoyed  yesterday 
afternoon."  He  had  conducted  the  late  Service  as  usual,  and  had  given  one  of 
his  brief  addresses.  The  fish  I  was  angling  for,  feeling  I  must  speak  or  explode, 
caught  at  the  bait ! 

"1  am  glad  of  course — it  only  means  one  thing  to  enjoy  a  Sacred  Service. 
Did  you  like  the  Sermon?"  "Sermon!  Oh  no  Sermons  are  old  stories  1  was 
brought  up  on  them;  have  heard  thousands!  Very  much  the  same,  don't  you 
think?  And  usually  so  tiresome!  1  could  never  see  any  reason  why  a  man  in  the 
Pulpil     liould  think  he  knew  so  much   more  than  the  people  in  the  Pews!     Oh  no, 

it's  never  tin'  Sermon,  it's  you  that  entertain  me;  jrour  appearance  1  mean;  How 
fortunate  you  'took  orders',  those  Vestments  are  so  awfully  becoming,  pity  you 
(  an'l  wear  I  hem  all  the  time!" 

"What!  What  do  you  mean'.'"  in  horrified  accents,  but  1  gave  him  no  time 
lor   further  interruption,   rushing  on   and   lifting   the   key    to  higher  impertinence. 

"You  ar<  o  impn  fascinating  in  those  robes,  ami  you'll  always  be  so  popular 
uiih  the  ladiei  '  Ministers  don  1  need  to  be  clever-tongued;  women  believe  them 
kind  .md  charitable,  and,  until  i<>un<l  <>ut  'tongue-thrashings'  won't  be  visited  on 
them." 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


He  stared  in  dumb  incredulity,  his  face  had  flushed  darkly  and  he  actually 
looked  black,  blonde  as  he  was. 

I  saw  he  understood  that  he  had  not  robbed  me  of  my  rights,  that  he  realized 
the  promptings,  however  harsh,  of  natural  indignation  and  retaliation. 

He  looked  almost  blankly,  and  my  voice  trembled  a  little  as  I  added  with  a 
struggling  sense  of  lightness — "The  Bible  warns  us  when  all  men  like  us  that  it 
is  dangerous.  My  Father  always  read  the  Bible  every  day,  so  we  learned  about 
'Garments  of  Righteousness',  and  that  the  true  Priests  were  clothed  with  Sal- 
vation. Father  said  it  was  only  the  Scribes  who  loved  to  wear  long  robes — but 
now-a-days  everything  seems  very  different." 

He  rallied  to  the  attack,  regained  his  poise — cool  and  self-controlled,  with  a 
slow  cynical  smile  and  hardening  of  the  eyes  he  spoke — a  natural  born  master  of 
satire.    His  words  cut  like  wire  and  all  the  best  in  me  knew  it  for  defeat. 

"Certainly  talk  does  not  flag  in  your  neighborhood — "A  Daniel  come  to  judg- 
ment!" You  should  be  counted  among  the  most  eloquent  of  the  clergy.  Glibness 
is  a  gift.  You  are  quite  marvellous.  You  have  waked  me  up.  I  bow  to  superiority 
— but  curb  vindictiveness — it  interferes  with  apologies.  Thanks  for  the  Bible 
lesson!"    His  tone  had  more  than  mockery.    He  had  scored  a  victory. 

The  report  of  my  outrageous  attack  must  have  become  general  property  and 
fed  to  flame  all  feelings  of  disapproval  in  that  family,  although  as  my  visit  only 
lasted  two  days  longer  there  was  no  time  for  its  active  expression  and  every  reason 
for  repression  and  outward  control. 

In  me  to  the  very  end  was  the  ice  of  an  unnatural  impenetrable  reserve.  I 
encased  myself  in  it.  I  was  embedded — I  floated  in  it — not  resentful  only  remorse- 
fully miserable.  Until  that  episode,  notwithstanding  the  chill  of  former  impressions, 
my  heart  and  brain  had  been  susceptible  and  largely  unsuspicious,  and  I  had  tried 
to  hold  and  harbour  only  pleasant  sensations. 

There  had  been  in  me  after  all  little  reflected  beyond  my  own  image,  my  own 
young  desires  of  flesh  and  spirit,  and  my  frequently  quenched  enthusiasm  grown 
vivid  again  at  times,  had  never  before  been  effectually  and  entirely  dimmed.  I 
had  disliked  actively  no  one  and  never  dreamed  of  such  spiritual  rupture  and 
burning  wounds. 

Now  I  wanted  but  one  thing — to  hide — to  escape — to  get  away.  Today 
vague  memories  of  passing  through  endless  periods  those  last  days  of  mortifica- 
tion and  suffering,  oppress  me  more  than  any  definite  recollections. 

But  one  single  incident  impressed  itself  as  an  act  of  defiant  independence.  I 
was  so  hurt  I  could  not  bear  to  remain  under  the  roof  one  unnecessary  or  un- 
occupied hour.  And  the  last  afternoon  I  deliberately  dressed — said  nothing  of 
plan  or  purpose— spoke  to  no  one — met  no  one,  and  passed  quietly  from  the  house 
in  a  little  buzz  of  unqualified  and  swelling  excitement. 

I  only  followed  in  the  wake  of  the  crowds,  on  the  pavements  thronged  with 
bright  colours  and  happy  movement  in  that  dazzling  August  sunlight.  All  those 
little  tables  full  under  the  striped  awnings;  Waiters  darting  to  and  fro;  Such 
busy,  smiling  people!  I  kept  winking  away  the  onrush  of  hot  tears.  Oh!  that 
shifting  panorama — Oh!  to  attain  my  desire — to  be  one  of  them — Paris  so  gay, 
so  attractive — life  so  rich,  so  throbbing  with  joy — and  I  outside — so  lonely,  so 
unloved,  so  alien. 

My  plentiful  share  of  hope  and  pride  had  been  lessened.  My  secret  purpose 
to  become  intellectual,  attractive  and  popular  was  entirely  crushed.  The  un- 
approachable Heavens  of  shining  superiority  had  faded  from  view,  had  become 
Astronomical — and  I  had  been  swept  into  dark  distance  with  no  light  to  encourage 
or  lead  me  on.  They  had  succeeded,  all  unconsciously  doubtless,  in  making  me 
feel  I  could  never  belong  to  a  distinguished  circle.  I  seemed  instead  to  have  been 
taught  to  jeer  at  myself,  to  admonish  with  proper  scorn  the  intense  longing  in 
me  that  was  so  wholly  unsupported  by  gifts  or  talents. 

Later  years  have  taught  me  that  in  everyone's  life  certain  days  definitive, 
mark  progress  or  failure,  victory  or  defeat.  The  sure  pressure  of  time  reduces  the 
idealistic  tendency  to  exaggerate  or  to  fence  off  from  the  common  terms  of  every- 


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day  life.  The  air  castles  fade  as  slowly  one  begins  to  learn  how  largely  the  secret 
of  power  lies  in  self  control. 

The  calm  dignity  of  Gussie's  face  was  unruffled  as  she  wished  me  "Bon  Voyage", 
and  we  said  good-bye.  I  have  never  seen  her  since.  I  suppose  there  was  really 
no  antagonism  ever  existing  between  us,  only  a  great  castle  of  reticence  lifting  its 
walls  so  high  that  neither  ever  perceived  the  other's  point  of  view.  Yet  I  perceive 
vaguely  through  the  haze  of  my  mind  that  the  blame  could  not  be  entirely  theirs. 
To  allow  myself  to  think  that  would  be  to  misjudge  them.  All  this  now  flashes 
on  the  screen  of  recollection  and  explains  how  or  why,  with  dawning  self-knowledge, 
there  developed  in  me  the  obligation  of  silence;  how  the  mental  reactions,  re- 
tractions, and  reservations  made  me  resolve  to  speak  of  it  to  no  one.  In  a  sense 
the  friction  and  misunderstandings  and  dissatisfaction  became  an  unshared 
secret,  the  existence  of  which  no  one  guessed. 

The  key  to  infinite  reaches  of  pleasure  and  sovereignty  that  I  anticipated,  the 
facts  had  proved  I  held  but  slackly.  The  sensation  of  diminished  importance  and 
of  reduced  possessions  had  aroused  questions  as  to  existing  possibilities,  that 
before  so  glowed  and  towered  in  magic  before  the  wide-eyed  hopes  and  fancies. 
But  it  had  given  me  a  widening  of  horizons;  a  new  vision,  although  the  secret 
of  entire  deliverance  from  my  own  convictions  of  worth  and  gain  was  still  afar  off. 
But  at  least  and  at  last  I  had  learned  that  the  whole  world  was  not  my  oyster. 

It  was  with  no  elation  I  took  my  seat  in  the  train  with  Captain  Erskine  and 
wife,  who  had  kindly  offered  to  take  charge  of  me  to  Havre,  as  they  were  to  meet 
their  steamer  there  for  America.  They  must  have  thought  me  wholly  lacking  in 
animation,  as  we  steamed  out  of  Paris  and  on  through  the  lovely  country  in  its 
late  summer  fruitage. 

Something  had  happened  to  me,  the  result  of  that  stay  in  Paris,  which  might 
or  not  have  unforeseen  consequences,  either  dire  or  happy.  My  barriers  were 
being  slowly  withdrawn,  the  suggestion  of  a  brooding  spirit  was  warning  me  not 
to  cheat  myself  further  regarding  the  value  of  my  own  ideas,  opinions  or  senti- 
ments. One  result  of  that  visit  had  been  a  rapid  extraordinary  transmission  of 
thought,  which  had  given  to  me  an  entirely  new  income  of  treasure  in  the  here- 
tofore lacking  virtue  of  humility. 

Certainly  I  could  not  for  long  be  wholly  cast  down.  There  was  a  warm  human 
fluttering  alive  in  me,  and  it  became  a  sudden  tense  excitement  as  the  train  pulled 
into  Havre.  It  was  still  light — a  gorgeous  August  evening,  the  air  so  soft  and 
delicious.  I  leaned  out  to  get  more  of  it,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  my  Uncle,  so 
debonair  and  delightful.  How  distinguished  he  looked  and  how  effusive  I  felt 
as  he  handed  me  from  the  train-carriage.  "Glad  to  see  you.  Hope  the  gaieties 
of  Paris  did  not  make  you  unwilling  to  come  back?"  There  was  a  peculiar  elegance 
of  bearing  and  genial  charm  of  manner  that  clothed  him  like  a  garment  on  land. 
He  had  shed  some  garment  of  concealment  that  he  always  wore  at  sea. 

I  had  thought  him  a  bear  on  his  ship,  never  knowing  until  in  his  age  how  he 
had  hated  his  profession,  and  yet  believed  he  could  succeed  in  no  other;  how  he 
had  rebelled  at  being  driven  over  the  waste  places  of  the  earth,  shrinking  under 
the  weight  of  tremendous  responsibilities,  and  encasing  himself  in  silence  and 
solitude. 

It  was  the  Gray  spirit  of  pride  and  endurance  that  prevented  all  complaints, 
and  shut  off  all  confidence  or  exchange  of  sympathy  anywhere.  They  were  al- 
ways a  reserved  and  haughty  family.     He  was  a  thoroughbred,  and  Btood  out 

as  one  possessed  of  social  graces;  courtesy  seemed  .is  natural  as  air  to  him,  and 
1  was  very  proud  to  compare  him  with  the  oilier  Captains. 

^  out  h  is  resilient,  and  while  youth  and  buoyanc)  fast  e\  ery  day  is  a  step  toward 

Ome  unknown  or  desired  goal.     Swift   as  a   flash  01  light    I   had  fell   again  my  own 

table  bat  I.  ground,  loi  I  for  a  little  in  a  sharp  sense  of  faults  and  failings,  an  acute 
ense  of  inequalities  and  inferiorities,  bul  melting  rapidly  into  pleasure  as  some 

of   t  he   lonelini         v.  .1      ,i      uaged. 

They  had  found  comfort  in  a  quiet  Hotel  frequented  bj  the  English  and  a 
half-dozen  Americans  including  ourselves.    There  were  two  Sea  Captains  brusque 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


and  boisterous;  gusts  and  explosions  of  merriment,  and  occasional  violent  verbal 
encounters,  made  what  appealed  to  me  as  a  hub-bub  without  meaning  or  end. 
I  did  not  take  in  their  jokes,  intimations,  inuendoes  or  compliments.  My  Uncle's 
silence  by  comparison  evidenced  a  fineness  and  finish  that  I  was  eager  to  emulate. 

I  could  not  realize  my  own  youth  then,  or  what  it  all  meant,  finding  myself 
after  all  so  little  changed;  finding  myself  on  good  terms  with  everyone;  and  the 
people  about  me  appealing  as  real  people  not  just  shadows.  It  was  looking  back 
that  became  a  fantastic  dream. 

Our  time  was  filled  with  drives  and  visits  to  objects  or  places  of  interest  in  the 
Gity  or  outlying  country.  The  green  and  peace  of  surrounding  regions  I  was 
seeing  through  rose-coloured  glasses  once  more.  The  days  were  respite  periods 
of  happy  release  and  comforting  companionship.  My  Aunt's  airy  manner  and 
my  Uncle's  humourous  attentions,  gave  me  back  my  perspective. 

"Show  me  your  pretty  things"  said  my  Aunt  one  morning.  I  looked  at  her 
dubiously,  perplexed  almost  to  the  point  of  embarrassment.  "Why!  Your 
dresses  and  your  presents — What  did  you  get  for  your  Mother?"  she  added. 

Everything  grew  dim  and  blurred  as  though  a  mist  had  crept  in  and  covered 
my  eyes.  "Oh!  Aunt  Kate,  I  haven't  anything."  "What!  No  new  gowns,  and 
no  presents  for  anyone?"  in  a  tone  of  bewildered  surprise  that  cut  like  a  knife. 

I  was  going  home  with  no  gifts,  with  nothing  for  those  dearest  on  earth  to  me! 
It  all  rose  up  before  me,  my  own  inefficiency  and  forgetfulness.  It  piled  up  and 
was  upon  me  in  great  gasping  sobs — that  I  had  nothing — nothing,  and  I  might 
have  asked  or  insisted,  and  surmounted  those  barriers;  but  the  wretched  burden 
of  fresh  knowledge  of  my  own  failures  and  utter  defeat,  sapped  the  last  vestige 
of  self-control. 

My  weeping  was  so  wild  and  passionate  that  she  was  almost  frightened,  and 
astounded,  when  she  caught  the  choking  words — "I  didn't  shop  at  all!  I  was 
never  inside  one;  I  wasn't  taken  to  the  shops."  "Oh!  What  of  it,"  she  inter- 
rupted hastily — "Stop  crying  so,  you're  silly;  I  suppose  you  were  too  gay;  I  was 
only  taken  aback  that  you  had  forgotten;  we've  nearly  a  week  before  sailing." 

"Oh  Aunt  Kate, do,  do  help  me  to  find  presents — for  you  and  Uncle  William 
and  for  them  on  board  ship — and  for  everyone  at  home — I  want  to  give  something, 
I  don't  forget  anyone,"  and  startled  at  my  vehemence,  whatever  she  suspected 
was  admirably  concealed. 

She  quieted  my  outburst  by  promising  down-town  trips  at  once,  and  remarked 
pertinently,  "You  are  funny,  you  are  acting  like  a  duck  in  a  thunder-storm, 
making  me  agog  and  amazed — and  then  quack — quack,  you  sail  off  without  a 
word!  Open  your  mouth  and  say  nothing — that  'nothing  is  the  matter,'  and  up- 
turn your  wet  eyes  with  frantic  entreaties  to  buy  presents!  Who  would  have 
thought  that  you  would  cry  for  nothing?  I  can  hardly  believe  my  senses. — Why! 
you  were  never  unreasonable  and  mysterious  before.  Of  course  we  can  buy  lots 
of  things,  whatever  you  take  a  fancy  to  and  whenever  you  like,  we  don't  go  on 
board  till  Sunday." 

But  a  faint  criterion  of  my  state  of  mind  had  reached  her,  and  with  kind, 
merry  quips  she  changed  the  subject,  and  rushed  off  several  questions.  "What 
about  the  men  you  met?  Like  anyone  better  than  our  Officers?"  "Oh  yes,  one," 
I  replied,  composure  fully  regained,  "Dr.  Johnson,  the  resident  American  Phy- 
sician was  very  handsome  and  distinguished,  and  I  liked  him  ever  so  much." 

The  magnetic  current  between  me  and  familiarly  affectionate  surroundings 
gave  me  back  a  measure  of  former  light-heartedness,  but  the  joyous  effervescence 
had  decreased.  It  was  as  if  one  had  been  turned  upside-down  by  alarming  ebulli- 
tions; like  a  whirl-wind,  tempests  had  been  created  in  mind  and  heart,  and  I  had 
recognized  in  myself  something  of  which  I  was  by  no  means  proud. 

But  it  is  easy  to  forget  one's  lapses,  and  underneath  an  idealistic  and  intuitive 
soul  there  is  usually  a  refined  and  relatively  generous  nature  that  asserts  itself. 
I  found  myself  prompt  to  respond  to  fresh  impressions  of  those  comforting  days 
in  Havre.  Severity  of  criticism  was  over,  the  air  was  filled  from  morning  to  night 
with  a  busy  hum  and  its  sounds  meant  satisfaction,  interest  and  pleasure. 


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Life  is  greater,  more  magnificent  than  we  imagine,  and  its  secret  and  unconscious 
agents  of  meeting  and  action  are  mysterious,  and  communicate  to  us  often,  when 
least  anticipated,  something  penetrating  and  uplifting. 

A  thought,  a  word,  an  action  charges  and  changes  the  whole  atmosphere,  and 
there  was  for  us  all  unexpected  proof  of  precious  matter  in  one  of  the  Captain's, 
where  before  Ave  had  only  seen  mud  or  clay.  We  may  have  only  drawn  common 
things  from  a  human  being  hitherto,  and  then  the  day  comes  when  we  arrive  at 
true  treasure  of  example  and  action,  and  it  all  happens  independent  of  our  will — 
and  what  better  proof  can  we  have  that  we  are  led  by  the  higher  power  that  men 
call  Providence,  in  all  the  immensity  about  us?  There  are  effects,  sensations, 
gestures,  which  fix  themselves  in  one's  brain  without  our  knowing  it,  and  what 
happened  the  last  morning  of  our  stay  in  Havre  is  as  luminous  and  clear  in  re- 
collection as  the  dawn  of  that  day  that  gave  us  excitement  at  fever  heat,  and  a 
panic  of  fear. 

Very  early  that  Saturday  morning  the  noisiest  of  our  two  Captains  had  set 
sail  for  his  long  voyage  round  The  Horn.  We  were  at  breakfast,  in  the  pretty 
Salon  of  our  little  Suite,  when  such  profanity  as  I  had  never  dreamed  of  cut  the 
air,  and  reached  us  in  tremendous  oaths  as  Captain  Brown  staggered  in — "Gray! 
Gray!  By  God!  there's  mutiny!"  and  he  swore  in  frantic  expletives — "It's  Caxton! 
It's  Caxton!  Those  Hell-hounds  of  Dagoes — damned  scum  of  the  earth — they're 
fighting, — I  tell  you  I  saw  it — we  must  get  there." 

The  words,  Mutiny  and  Mutinying  conveyed  little  of  danger  or  tragedy,  until 
my  Uncle  dashed  out  with  his  half  frantic  companion  and  I  heard  my  Aunt's  cry — 
"Don't  go,  William — Oh!  don't  go — you'll  be  killed."  My  Aunt  trembled  like  an 
aspen  leaf  and  I  quivered  in  sympathy;  but  appeals  were  too  late,  nothing  could 
have  held  or  hindered  them  from  an  attempt  at  rescue. 

How  they  got  the  boat  manned  with  half-a-dozen  husky  sailors,  and  started 
so  quickly,  who  can  tell?  There  were  volunteers  ready  when  plenty  of  money 
was  offered.     Haste  might  mean  the  saving  of  human  life. 

It  seems  there  was  a  Cupola  topping  our  Hotel.  The  Captains  were  old  friends 
and  the  one  left  behind  had  secretly  and  half-shamedly  ascended  for  a  parting 
glimpse.  The  large  telescope  that  belonged  to  some  Astronomical  Association, 
left  on  that  summit  for  their  regular  use,  he  had  trained  on  the  rapidly  retreating 
vessel.  They  were  hardly  out  of  Port,  the  Pilot  had  hardly  left,  but  it  was  plain 
to  his  experienced  eye  that  the  drunken  crew,  led  by  some  desperado,  were  opposing 
discipline,  refusing  orders,  and  that  a  scrimmage  had  already  started.  It  meant 
but  one  thing  to  those  keen  eyes. 

The  sailors  taken  on  at  many  of  the  ports  are  in  many  instances  the  most 
violent  and  dreadful  of  characters,  and  mad  with  drink  trouble  is  often  to  be  ap- 
prehended, although  easily  mastered  and  very  seldom  immediately  started.  A 
reign  of  terror  and  rebellion  had  begun  and  without  delay  disaster  might  have 
ensued. 

The  two  Captains  racing  to  the  rescue  with  boat-men  and  fire-arms  arrived 
just  in  time  to  play  the  role  of  saviours.  They  reduced  the  violence  to  order  with- 
out much  trouble.  They  helped  place  the  leaders  in  irons  and  thoroughly  frightened 
every  rebel.  They  counselled  the  Captain  in  vain  to  return  for  a  new  sel  ol  men, 
bul  he  answered  grimly — "That  he  could  give  them  the  punishment  they  deserved, 
and  terrorize  the  others  to  prompt  obedience."  They  drank  together  to  a  success- 
ful voyage,  and  out  of  sight  sailed  the  vessel  after  renewed  farewells  and  hearty 
t  hanks. 

When  the  large-hearted  Knights-Erram  returned  Hushed  and  exultant,  they 

found  U8  'till  frightened  nearly  out  of  OUr  witS.     My  teeth  I). id  chattered  and  blood 
run  old  ai    my   Aunt's  repeated  cry      "They   will   be  killed      they   will   be   killed.*' 

"They  are  noi  afraid",  I  said,  trying  to  control  the  reign  of  terror.    "Uncle  Wil- 
liam   won't    like   it    if   wc   art    like  cow  .1  id.."   .ind    just    to  speak  of  his   fearlessness 

M.i       ill  ill',-        .1    ;■'  I0d    '  •liicll. 

Thej  came  back  to  us  wearied  but  amused,  openly  satisfied  with  the  "days 
woii. "     declaring  it   was  the  merest   scrap  aftei   all.     "Considerable  sordid ness 


!.•'< 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


in  it",  laughed  My  Uncle,  "but  no  tragedy — it  was  nothing — a  little  scrimmage 
right  here  in  the  Harbour — a  few  drunken  brawlers  resisting  the  mate's  orders — 
Why  the  Pilot  had  not  left — Brown's  imagination  traveled  out  into  the  Atlantic! 
He  just  caught  sight  of  the  fracas  and  saw  red.  It  loomed  large,  broad  off  on  the 
Starboard  beam,  but  it  was  well  we  went — we  frightened  them,  didn't  we?" 

The  short  military  figure  of  the  Captain  turned  away  to  hide  embarrassment. 
He  felt  for  the  moment  obliterated,  but  realized  it  was  the  heartiness  that  spoke 
as  of  the  ocean  wind  laughing  at  our  fears.  His  face  surrendered  soon  all  its  harsh 
lines — something  flashed  from  his  eyes  which  softened  them  as  he  showed  his 
relief,  and  acknowledged  my  Uncle's  willingness  and  quick  service.  "He's  the 
soul. of  a  ship-mate — I  knew  he  was — You're  husband,  ma'am,  is  a  great  seaman," 
bowing  to  my  Aunt  as  he  left  us.  It  was  like  a  challenge  and  we  were  buoyed  up, 
striving  to  be  self-reliant  and  to  emulate  the  cool  collectness  that  would  not  admit 
danger  but  wore  the  aspect  of  undoubted  courage  and  triumph. 

Oh!  the  admiration  I  felt,  the  joy  of  breathing  in  something  that  filled  the 
lungs  with  freshness  and  dimmed  the  eyes  with  thankfulness.  Something  new 
had  distilled  itself  into  the  atmosphere — something  noble  had  uplifted  the  soul. 
We  had  been  taken  out  of  the  grooves  of  an  every-day  existence,  and  had  come 
in  contact  with  Divine  forces  of  helpfulness  and  sympathy.  It  is  the  sign  of  in- 
dividual power,  of  courage,  of  self-forgetfulness,of  unmeasured  service  that  gives 
to  one  sudden  aspirations  toward  a  wider  life.  I  was  ashamed  of  the  surroundings 
of  modernism  I  had  left;  that  had  nearly  subjugated  me,  mind  and  heart;  and 
created  disturbing  images  to  tarnish  the  bloom  of  generous  emotion.  Now  there 
had  come  into  the  whole  landscape  something  penetrating  and  enveloping  that 
filled  me  with  a  sense  of  adventure  and  delight.  Life  shone  again  with  rare  bril- 
liancy. 

Absolute  knowledge  of  an  experience  or  its  results  is  not  possible,  and  much 
has  gone  beyond  recall;  stored  up  and  seemingly  lost  in  some  secret  chamber  of 
the  brain;  but  as  one  wanders  backward  and  re-lives  the  Past  there  is  an  ever 
moving  film  of  the  mind  that  carries  the  mist  away.  Clear-cut  mind  pictures  are 
not  always  with  us;  but  a  series  of  visions  that  project  and  re-project  themselves 
on  the  screen  of  memory.  Alas!  in  all  beautiful  things  there  is  something  exquisite 
that  lacks  duration.  Yet  never  has  that  incident  grown  unreal  nor  is  its  lesson 
wholly  lost. 

THE    OCEAN    SYMPHONY 

The  ship  drew  out  of  the  harbour,  and  we  raced  away  under  full  sail  "with  a 
free  sheet"  as  I  heard  one  of  the  sailors  say,  leaning  over  the  rail,  squinting  at  the 
sky.  Our  Boat  seemed  to  Queen  it  among  the  shipping  in  that  lovely  harbour, 
and,  as  we  boarded  her  that  Sunday  morning,  I  appreciated  as  never  before,  the 
shapeliness  of  the  vessel's  lines;  the  shining  cleanliness;  the  dazzle  of  her  brass 
work,  and  the  exquisite  order  of  everything  on  her  decks. 

The  mysteries  of  ropes  and  coils  and  knots  and  rigging  again  appealed  to  in- 
terest and  enjoyment.  It  was  an  indescribable  feeling  of  freedom,  as  of  the  gulls 
themselves  that  swooped  above  the  tall  masts.  The  sun-drenched  air  was  fresh 
and  cool  and  the  sea  an  unbroken  sheet  of  blue.  That  perfect  view  brought  back 
ease  to  brain  and  warmth  to  heart.  The  waves  of  loneliness  that  always  invade 
one  in  a  strange  or  arid  atmosphere  no  longer  swept  over  me.  I  began  to  forget 
that  I  had  felt  so  utterly  alone  and  lost.  The  Sea  held  the  sunlight  in  a  gigantic 
bowl.  It  seemed  nothing  could  ever  break  its  beauty  and  peace.  It  vitalized  a 
healthy  renewal  of  delight,  and  gave  an  uprush  of  spirit,  an  overcharge  of  gaiety 
to  my  ordinary  demeanor.  It  was  an  atmosphere  of  excitement,  of  tense  and  ec- 
static joy  as  we  sailed  towards  the  beckoning  horizon — homeward  bound. 

The  spell  of  the  vast  and  lovely  sea!  its  clear  jade  depths  beneath  the  ship's 
side;  its  shining  surface — blue  and  green,  amethyst  and  grey,  silver  and  rose  under 
the  play  of  shifting  sun  and  shade.  Those  great  waters  beneath  and  all  about  us; 
that  wide  world  of  delicate  translucent  coloring,that  flowing  fantastic  wonderful  world, 

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the  changeful,  evanescent,  untamable  force  of  ocean.  All  discordant  noises  and 
irritations  and  discomforts  left  behind  and  we  emerging  into  a  still  cool  eternal 
morning.  Always  the  rose  and  mauve  in  heavenly  vestments,  .and  I  felt  I  knew 
what  it  was  to  live — that  I  was  getting  the  most  out  of  life — that  I  was  adventuring 
again. 

Yet  when  I  entered  the  little  Salon  and  saw  our  quarters,  they  seemed  altered 
as  backgrounds  do  alter  with  changes  in  ourselves,  but  when  I  thought  of  dis- 
appointments in  Paris  or  experiences  in  Havre  it  was  as  one  thinks  of  persons  and 
things  infinitely  removed,  with  only  a  veiled  interest,  as  if  there  was  no  longer 
logical  connection  with  actual  life. 

Following  sun  flooded  days,  the  very  water  washing  our  bows  translucent 
sapphire,  and  we  going  west  in  a  glory  of  crimson  and  pale  green  and  vivid  golds; 
and  evenings  with  a  great  pearl  of  a  waning  moon  that  rose  in  state  to  enthrone 
itself  and  disperse  all  other  lights;  so  dark  the  blue  beneath,  so  silvery  the  shine 
above  those  liquid  depths.  And  later  nights,  what  pictures  over  the  purple  waters! 
pictures  no  mortal  man  could  ever  paint.  The  stars  melting  into  the  sea,  the 
waters  ruffling  and  flashing,  pointed  and  crested  with  tremulous  light.  Outward 
manifestations  of  infinitesimal  sea-life  guarding  itself  in  sinuous  lines,  in  mar- 
velous curves,  in  ribbons  like  streaming  flags;  flowing  and  sparkling  and  quivering 
as  we  broke  and  plunged  onward.  The  strange  phosphorescent  light  flung  upward 
from  unfathomed  depths,  flashing  and  going  out  and  constantly  renewed;  bands 
and  crests  of  silver  to  quiver  and  glitter,  to  glow  and  shift  and  cast  weird  lights 
on  sails  and  spars  and  human  faces. 

As  on  the  return  trip  I  was  familiar  with  the  etiquette  of  life  on  ship-board 
I  strove  at  first  to  practice  more  self-restraint  in  speech.  It  continued  oppressive 
at  the  table,  as  most  of  them  preserved  a  dead  silence  that  did  not  however  deter 
the  chatterer,  Illsley.  He  announced  at  the  very  first  meal  that  "sea-life  gave 
one  the  appetite  of  a  wolf,"  and  proceeded,  notwithstanding  the  absence  of  re- 
sponse, to  regale  us  with  unsolicited  accounts  of  what  sounded  like  imaginary 
adventures;  and  turned  sometimes  to  inquire  in  casual  assumption  "If  I,  too, 
had  not  found  the  gaieties  of  Paris  rather  exhausting?" 

It  always  called  a  halt  in  my  eloquent  evasions  and  concocted  tales  to  see  my 
Uncle's  face  of  scorn,  and  to  note  uncomfortably  his  undue  severity  over  trifling 
errors  of  service  and  discipline.  There  was  a  peculiar  dignity  in  the  way  he  spoke, 
while  we  seemed  gay  and  light  and  seldom  serious.  Later  in  life  when  I  understood 
that  educated  as  a  Mariner,  in  the  Marine  Service  all  his  youth,  so  fine  and  skillful, 
so  courageous  and  consistent,  he  yet  always  hated  his  work  but  gave  his  best 
service  to  it;  I  understood  better  the  mystery  in  his  cold  reserve,  chilling  silence, 
and  apparent  absence  of  sympathy.  But  then  at  times,  realizing  even  mine  as 
an  undesircd  presence,  his  manner  roused  me  to  decided  lack  of  deference  when 
we  were  alone. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  tie  me  down,  Uncle  William?"  I  asked  once  coaxingly — 
"You  know  I  can't  be  still  very  long — I  was  made  to  wag  my  tongue,  I  can't  copy 
your  model  of  silence." 

"White  is  a  fine  sea-man,  worthier  of  your  respect  than  that  reckless  Patten — 
He  never  spills  over  like  a  mad-man,  or  acts  like  a  callow  boy.  What  the  deuce 
do  you  find  in  cither  of  those  two,  anyway?  For  the  Lord's  sake,  do  learn  judg- 
ment." 

I  never  heard  him  utter  a  single  oath,  and  this  was  as  near  to  profanity  as  he 
probably  adventured,  nor  would  he  ever  countenance  swearing  in  his  presence, 
which  marked  him  as  singular  as  he  was  silent.  Now,  delighted  at  his  emphasis, 
I      prang  up  dancing,  in  the  same  mood  when   I   heard  hini  utter  almost   the  same 

thing  before    "Oh,  Uncle  William,  I  thank  you  for  your  compliments.     Sorry 

I'm  not  more  like  you.  They  used  tosav  ai  (  rl  .1  ndl'a  t  her's  1  had  very  little  Cii.ix 
in  me,  for  ever  telling  me  I  was  all  Sumner;  but,  .is  l.u  as  I  can  find  out,  those 
unknown  Suinners  were  all  talkers  and  the  lamls,  you'll  have  to  admit,  are  nice 
and  genial."     I  I  houghl   I  saw  a  I  winkle  in  his  eve,  but   I  could  not  hear  .uiv  allinna- 

tive  rei  pon  i  si  he  turned  his  back  and  lit  thai  eternal  cigai 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


To  dread  a  thing  and  then  find  it  easy  gives  one  a  very  pleasant  sense  of  dif- 
ficulties overcome,  and  accounts  for  spirits  rising  unexpectedly  and  brightly. 
When  Mr.  Patten  came  forward  naturally  and  said,  "We've  all  been  waiting 
to  see  you  on  the  decks  again,"  my  eyes  held  laughter  as  the  merry  greetings 
followed.  Something  wiped  conflicts  and  wooing  from  my  memory  for  the  first 
hours.  He  had  strength  but  not  subtlety,  and  once  seeing  clearly  I  thought  my 
real  attitude  was  definitely  apparent,  that  there  could  be  no  possibility  of  imagina- 
tion running  riot  again.  There  was  no  longer  any  glamour  thrown  over  my  judg- 
ment, I  declared  to  myself  grandly,  but  there  was  still  in  me  the  shadow  of  futile 
childish  things,  only  the  immensity  around  seemed  for  the  time  to  smother  their 
voices. 

And  as,  at  first,  when  together  he  talked  only  of  sea-trips,  of  favouring  winds, 
of  the  September  sky,  of  his  plans  for  the  near  future,  an  easy  talker  that  it  required 
no  effort  to  entertain,  with  some  faculty  of  observation,  he  made  slow  approach 
to  form  a  comradeship  without  alarming  me  again.  There  was  about  him  a  rest- 
less energy.  He  gave  the  impression  of  strength  and  will  and  also  an  ability  to 
do  things  with  speed.  Energetic  with  no  inhibitions  his  daring  seemed  to  have  no 
outlet  save  driving  a  boat  into  the  teeth  of  a  gale. 

He  began  as  before  to  have  a  sort  of  effect  that  was  disturbing.  The  sailors  I 
saw  feared  and  disliked  him  but  he  bore  always  his  defiant  air  of  mastery.  "Aren't 
you  afraid  of  anything?"  I  once  asked — "Of  nothing  except  the  end  of  this  trip 
and  of  losing  you,"  and  I  could  hold  no  anger  against  his  eager  look  and  disarming 
smile. 

The  wide  and  jeweled  sea  over  which  the  soft  winds  carried  us  seemed  to  take 
all  into  their  embrace,  and  for  the  first  ten  days  out  at  every  possible  interval 
when  off  duty  Mr.  Patten  watched  with  me  our  path  through  the  waters.  No 
wonder  that  I  sought  amusement  under  the  blazing  stars  or  in  the  pale  splendour 
of  moonlight,  or  in  full  sunlight;  and  was  easily  found,  apparently  studying  the 
horizon;  the  sea  dashing  its  waves,  guarding  the  ship  and  lulling  us  gently. 

And  with  that  illimitable  immensity,  those  immeasurable  spaces,  Sun,  Sky  and 
Sea,  how  could  I  imagine  or  fear  the  might  or  fury  of  ocean,  or  the  waves  of  emotion 
within?  I  knew  nothing  then  of  the  frantic  madness  of  the  elements,  or  of  the 
ravages  of  violent  sensation;  of  gales  that  were  to  hurl  us  out  of  our  course,  or  of 
words  that  could  shake  or  thrill  or  frighten — all  unknowing  that  we  were  to  be 
shown  that  neither  rest  nor  peace  nor  any  safety  could  be  counted  on  in  that  reeling 
watery  world. 

And  so  we  sped  on  and  on,  by  day  the  sun,  by  night  the  stars,  and  always  the 
sea  compelling  closer  intimacy  with  waves  and  clouds,  while  no  sadness  or  threats 
wrought  change  in  the  power  and  terrible  quiet  of  Ocean. 

That  First  Officer  of  our  ship  was  determined,  when  once  his  deliberate  mind 
had  reached  decision  and  fostered  resolution  to  have  his  say,  but  my  own  silence 
if  he  passed  a  barrier  suggested  an  aloofness  that  laid  its  prohibition  on  him. 
The  nearer  he  drew  the  further  I  retreated  from  any  deeper  intimacy,  and  in  some 
ways  he  became  slightly  repugnant  to  me.  He  had  no  workable  sense  of  humour. 
It  was  growingly  plain  that  he  had  no  quick  instincts  for  social  values,  that  he 
wouldn't  even  know  what  they  meant.  He  was  totally  without  glamour,  and 
yet  curiously  in  me  grew  a  sense  of  helplessness  that  drugged  like  leaden  weights 
upon  tongue  and  spirits;  and  sometimes  I  regarded  him  in  dismay,  his  confidence 
and  persistence  was  strange  and  incomprehensible.  I  knew  what  he  did  not, 
that  we  were  out  of  harmony,  that  the  degree  of  separateness  grew  daily,  that 
it  was  a  complete  separation  of  personalities,  that  he  did  not  fit  into  my  scheme 
of  things,  and  why  couldn't  he  feel  it  without  further  scenes? 

All  men  that  in  my  few  years  of  observation  and  limited  experience  of  the  sex 
I  had  watched,  or  who  had  ever  drawn  near  to  me,  seemed  without  what  the  heart 
of  youth  ached  for — all  but  my  "Dream  Prince,"  that  faint  shadowy  figure  that 
never  lost  magic  for  me,  whose  ever  receding  dower  of  magnificence  still  held  an 
entranced  fancy. 

There  were  indeed  yawning  gaps  in  my  knowledge  of  men  and  the  things  that 


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have  to  do  with  men. — And  here  I  was  in  a  new  emotional  world.  It  became 
fascination  that  embraced  everything  and  everyone.  The  sun  poured  colours 
magical;  combinations  of  unearthly  and  ethereal  loveliness  and  I  was  hypnotized 
those  first  days  and  nights.  Something  out  of  the  phosphorescent  dark  worked 
enchantment;  and  I  listened  often  without  protest,  just  as  I  listened  to  the  sailors 
singing  when  sails  were  sent  aloft;  just  as  I  listened  to  ringing  orders  and  watched 
our  white  wings  go  up  or  down,  and  stood  to  look  and  look  and  look  at  the  sky- 
line over  leagues  of  dancing  waves. 

The  one  thing  I  could  never  frown  upon  at  that  age  was  the  romantic  nonsense 
which  could  not,  in  me,  accustom  itself  to  ordinary  relationships  with  men  at  a 
minimum  of  imagination  and  a  maximum  of  reality.  I  continued  for  long  to  feel 
that  some  day  a  super-being  of  the  male  sex  would  surely  and  tactfully  pick  me 
out  of  the  whole  World — and  I'd  rush  into  his  embrace.  He  was  a  gigantic  shape 
in  my  sky.  He  never  descended  to  earth.  That  ideal  shape  of  appealing  majesty 
and  might,  Alas!  never  materialized.  And  such  as  Mr.  Patten  certainly  could 
not  hold  me  satisfied.  He,  however,  excited  my  fancy  one  evening  as  he  drew 
near,  for  something  exhilirating  and  optimistic  seemed  to  have  given  his  thoughts 
a  happy  and  sanguine  twist. 

It  was  a  moment  when  I  stood  erect  against  the  rail,  hair  blowing,  lips  parted 
and  exultation  stirring  me;  sensing  something  heroic  in  me  who  had  no  tested 
heroism.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  cheer  the  sailors  and  conquer  the  deep;  brave  enough 
against  all  possible  disaster  who  had  never  met  one. 

Vastness  of  space,  vagueness  yet  translucence  in  the  darkness!  What  new 
revelations  waited  in  that  night  at  sea?  My  background,  my  unproved  courage, 
my  undaunted  confidence  and  lack  of  fear  was  no  preparation  for  storms  that 
bear  the  menace  of  death  on  their  wings. 

He  drew  near  speaking  gently  at  first,  and  I  thought  there  was  no  need  of 
further  strain  or  disturbing  guise  in  our  relations.  I  thought  all  men,  so  far,  were 
intrepid,  valorous,  and  chivalrous,  and  that  I  had  made  it  clear  we  were  only 
friends  and  I  returned  his  look  for  the  briefest  of  seconds  without  hesitation. 

"I'm  not  fit  for  anything  but  the  sea — and  that's  the  truth.  What  can  I  do 
if  you  don't  care  for  it  enough  to  care  for  me?" 

In  a  sense  I  met  him  in  his  passion  for  the  sea,  but  as  he  proceeded  I  felt  sus- 
pended in  space  with  that  man  becoming  a  stranger,  and  silence  was  ominous  on 
my  part.  He  appeared  to  be  proving  his  superiority,  for  a  slow  smile  had  bright- 
ened his  face — "I  have  dreamed  it,  something  is  going  to  happen;  you'll  see." 

My  appalling  ignorance  of  life  gave  to  his  twelve  years  seniority  some  imagined 
quality  of  stability,  of  sincerity,  of  knowing  what  he  was  about,  and  of  meaning 
what  he  said. 

"You  won't  find  anyone  that  can  ever  care  more  than  I  do — I'm  internally 
in  earnest.  There's  nobody  else  I've  the  least  use  for,  I  know  I'm  handicapped, 
but  I'm  damnably  in  love." 

"Don't,"  I  said  sharply,  "don't  talk  like  that— I  hate  it."  But  he  talked  on— 
"When  you  just  look  at  me  your  eyes  knock  me  galley-west.  Why  the  devil  can't 
you  like  me?  I  know  I  made  a  mess  of  it  that  night  coming  over.  1  was  an  awful 
beast  to  frighten  you,  but  I  haven't  since,  and  you  said  you'd  forgive  me.  For 
God's  sake,  don't  say  No,  right  off — don't  say  now  you  won't  ever  care  for  me. 
Why  can't  I,  if  I  get  a  fine  ship,  go  to  Chicago  ami  Bee  your  Father  and  Mother?" 

A   moment   of  inexplicable   panic  seized   me  at    thought   of   Father  ami    Mother 

hearing  the  way  he  talked!    It  was  not  unalloyed  impertinence.    He  was  so  un- 

shakably  sure  of  himself,  but  what  would  the)-  think  of  a  man  who  swore  like  a 
pirate   all    the    time    he   was   making   love? 

"Don't,"  I  cried  again,  flinging  my  glance  Upward  where  my  Uncle  walked. 
II'-  never  damned  things  rfghl  and  left  I  knew,  and  I  didn'l  believe  he  swore  a 
I'll    «  hen   he  asked   Kate  lo  marry   him ! 

Perhaps  I  was  maddeningly  silent;  words  left  me  before  I  could  speak  them, 
and  I  discovered  ■>  Midden  difficult}  in  fixing  mj  ej  es  on  anything.  II'-  had  made 
me  feel  ridiculous,  and  pitj   i"i  him  was  flying. 


i  <" 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


"Why  the  devil  can't  I  say  the  right  thing,"  he  continued,  and  caught  my 
arm  in  the  glowing  intensity  of  the  moment. 

I  shrank  instantly,  almost  fiercely — "I'll  report  you  to  the  Captain",  I  said 
haughtily,  not  too  frightened  to  speak,  for  I  saw  I  had  regained  my  advantage. 

The  reaction  was  too  great  and  suddenly  I  laughed  aloud.  I  was  born  with 
laughter  on  my  lips,  and  having  once  given  way  I  could  not  call  a  halt  to  my 
merriment.  "What  in  thunder  is  so  funny?"  Just  at  that  juncture  his  manners 
were  not  strikingly  in  evidence,  and  I  felt  as  if  his  words  might  become  sulphurous 
at  any  moment. 

"I'm  not  laughing  at  you — something  came  over  me — I  never  can  help  laugh- 
ing," I  cried  in  suffocating  accents.  The  thoughts  of  him  as  a  son-in-law  to  my 
Father  nearly  convulsed  me,  but  his  words  of  violent  protest  brought  back  some 
measure  of  self-control. 

"Look  here — Why  am  I  so  funny?"  and  he  seemed  to  writhe  as  he  burst  forth 
with  a  furious  expletive.    "It  hurts  like  Hell  for  you  to  laugh  at  me." 

"I'm  not  laughing  at  you."  "You  are,  you  are — you're  making  fun  of  me, 
and  it's  damnable,"  which  brought  me  up  with  a  sharp  turn,  and  between  gasps 
I  insisted,  "I'm  not,  I'm  not  laughing  at  you;  it's  myself — I'm  funny  to  myself, 
and  I  never  want  to  hear  you  speak  again."  There  had  flashed  upon  me  as  I 
laughed  uncontrollably  the  appalling  picture  of  Mr.  Patten  as  a  life  companion. 
The  quick  response  in  me  to  whims  or  fancies,  to  the  ridiculous  or  incongruous, 
has  helped  me  through  many  a  hurt  moment  to  see  the  obverse  side  of  things; 
to  see  myself  objectively;  and  sometimes — not  often  perhaps,  I  have  enjoyed  my 
own  absurdities. 

All  my  early  upbringing  had  come  upon  me  with  such  cumulated  force  that 
it  made  his  suggestion  of  coming  to  Chicago  grotesque.  I  could  not  see  him  in 
our  house.  There  was  a  funny  shock  of  contrast,  a  sort  of  exaggerated  burlesque 
of  his  looks  and  manners.  I  wondered  how  he'd  conduct  himself;  and  if  he'd  ever 
heard  of  family  prayers?  It  was  all  a  farce.  He  was  out  of  any  picture  of  my 
home  life;  too  comical,  too  absurd,  too  impossible  to  be  real. 

I  ceased  to  feel  any  weighings  or  misgivings  but  he  had  robbed  my  very  thoughts 
of  expression.  I  could  not  wholly  control  my  risibles.  He  saw  it  and  his  mood 
completely  changed,  all  assurance  went  out  of  him.  He  cast  a  quick  glance  around 
as  if  he  feared  oversight  or  being  overheard.  New  elements  of  the  situation  seemed 
to  flash  through  his  mind.  His  flushed  face  became  almost  purple  and  he  muttered 
something,  which  happily  I  could  not  hear — a  curse  perhaps — who  knows?  and 
with  one  black  look  he  rushed  out  of  sight  and  finis  was  set  to  that  chapter. 

Ridicule  is  a  much  stronger  factor  in  our  daily  lives  than  we  are  willing  to 
admit.  A  great  many  are  susceptible  to  ridicule  who  are  immune  to  fear.  The  man 
was  neither  self  contained,  nor  wise  nor  even  kind;  his  lack  of  balance  and  of  any 
spiritual  generosity  made  it  out  of  the  question  to  consider  him  even  as  a  fairly 
good  friend. 

And  now  I  strangely  felt  that  that  relatively  intimate  contact  was  somehow 
destroying  the  illusion  of  my  Prince  Charming.  I  mean  scattering  dust  to  hide 
his  luminous  countenance,  and  whisking  far  away  my  highly  coloured  land  of 
dreams.  I  felt  a  faintly  fluttering  fear  of  having  lost  something  precious,  and  a 
growing  conviction  that  I  had  been  a  trifler,  that  I  was  to  blame. 

At  that  period  it  was  not  unnatural  to  reproach  oneself  with  leading  on  to 
issues  of  feeling  where  corresponding  returns  or  affirmative  responses  had  not 
been  intended.  There  were  ideals  then  of  a  certain  nobility  and  sincerity,  the 
direct  deviation  from  which  gave  a  chilling  fear  of  having  been  consciously  ignoble 
and  merely  vain. 

You  see  my  dear  young  family  how  pricelessly  Mid-Victorian  your  Great- 
Grand-Aunt  was!  And  as  you,  sophisticated  young  ladies  of  today,  are  the  best 
modern  authorities,  undoubtedly  the  opinion  that  prevails  among  you  is  that 
the  Victorians  were  utterly  lacking  in  humour?  I  confess  you  amuse  me.  The 
irony  of  your  wordly  knowledge,  and  rich  experience  with  the  masculine  nature, 
makes  mine  at  seventeen  more  than  a  unique  ignorance  of  life.     Its  absurd  blind- 


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ness,  its  lack  of  suspicion,  incredible  trustfulness,  in  fact  unworldliness  and  in- 
experience in  the  blazing  light  of  your  social  standards  must  necessarily  challenge 
merriment. 

But  thank  Heaven!  The  never  hearing  your  opinions  and  judgment  will 
save  me  from  severe  wounds  to  vanity! 

The  whole  panorama  still  hangs  in  the  air.  It  lifts  to  me  its  vivid  memory 
of  those  scenes  and  I  remember  my  mood  then  as  sharply  now  as  if  I  had  experienced 
it  this  very  hour.  In  early  dreams  there  is  such  intensity,  and  in  our  efforts  and 
expressions  the  same  energy  shows  our  inner  tendencies  and  aspirations.  And 
although  in  later  life  they  still  dominate,  have  become  part  of  character  the  original 
exuberant  force,  that  fiery  energy  of  feeling  is  no  longer  with  us. 

Here  and  there  as  I  have  written  I  see  the  pictures — Here  and  there  I  remember 
the  words — Here  and  there  I  re-hear  voices — Here  and  there  re-live  silences,  and 
realize  the  illusions  that  have  faded  utterly,  for  as  some  one  has  happily  said, 
"As  there  is  no  rigid  sequence  in  nature  so  there  is  none  in  our  thoughts."  It  is 
the  background  against  which  they  dance  and  vanish  I  am  trying  to  show.  Much 
of  the  individual  has  been  elaborated,  the  whole  story  detailed,  perhaps  unduly 
emphasized  with  the  idea  of  making  myself  understood.  An  impossibility  with 
any  of  us.  Apologies  for  the  rather  too  constant  personal  pronoun  are  here  made 
once  and  for  all.  And  the  honesty  I  have  striven  for  and  thought  attainable  is 
what  I  considered  essential  to  give  the  Sketches  their  value. 

It  is  strong  feeling  that  preserved  and  now  presents  what  happened  to  memory. 

That  was  the  last  lovely  night  for  many  weeks.  A  star  strewn  sky  and  a 
luminous  sea  shining  with  phosphorescence.  New  thoughts  had  come  and  swept 
me  far  from  the  old.  They  encroached,  the  new  emotions  and  sensations,  and 
everything  was  dramatic  and  uplifted  me  with  wonder.  Why  couldn't  the  strength 
in  me  become  solidity? 

It  was  the  next  morning  that  whole  Armadas  of  white  clouds  sailed  by  and 
the  warning  of  the  ship's  bells  was  like  music.  Nothing  threatened  me.  Ship- 
wrecks and  storm  were  unlikely  visitors.  They  still  called  me  a  "Mascot",  and 
little  I  dreamed  how  soon  that  would  be  disproved,  and  I  be  routed  from  my 
throne  of  sovereignty  or  any  fancied  coign  of  vantage. 

My  Uncle  was  always  walking  his  upper  deck,  spying  the  heavens,  watching 
the  Chart  and  the  men  at  the  wheel — both  of  them  machines,  forever  and  ever 
staring  and  staring  at  the  empty  sea  or  up  into  the  changing  skies. 

The  clouds  told  of  wind  somewhere.  There  was  still  a  golden  path  of  sunlight 
from  the  ship's  side  to  the  far  horizon — yet  the  sun  had  lost  some  of  its  glowing 
intensity.  It  was  all  singularly  still,  the  tang  of  the  sea  heavy  on  the  air,  and  every 
now  and  then  a  breath  stirred  in  the  rigging  which  was  almost  bare.  Something 
hardly  to  be  called  wind,  and  yet  bringing  with  it  a  curious  cold. 

It  was  dimming,  dimming,  and  to  experienced  eyes,  there  was  an  onrush  of 
clouds  that  threatened  to  wipe  out  light,  tier,  upon  tier  of  far  away  clouds  massing. 
Yet  there  seemed  to  be  a  fair  wind  before  which  we  ought  to  be  running,  and  1 
marvelled  that  sails  were  furled.  What  if  the  sky  was  full  of  little  clouds?  Clear 
breezes  played  overhead,  aiul  beneath  us  was  the  shimmer  of  sparkling  loam,  as 
we  plunged  on  lazily,  sails  all  reefed  instead  of  set  to  catch  the  gentle  wind  and 
bear  us  swift ly  on. 

Mr.    Patten,   ]U81    oil  watch,    made   to   pass   me   without    word   or  look.      As   he 

approached  gloomily,  I  asked  pleasantly,    How  mam  knots  do  we  make  an  hour. 
and  why  so  slow  this  morning?"    Mis  gloom  merely  deepened  as  with  a  son  01 
I  contemptuous  and  dynamic  force  in  the  answer,  he  halted  as  it  un- 
willing to  rej 

The  dark  fare  had  a  eurii  mis  expression  as  if  sneering  to  himsell  "Two  or  I  hive 
I. n-  its,    I      Lipp08(  ,"   and    his   eyes   snapped. 

"  It  Beem  like  a  free  wind  before  which  we  mighl  be  running,"  I  said  in  a  friendlj 
tone. 

"The  wind'',  going  to  shifi  a  bit  bul  we  mighl  rip  along  awhile,"  he  added 
sullenly     "Gel  an  advantage  while  il  I    I       bul  the  Captain  won'1  yield  a  wave's 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


length;  he's  main  cautious,  he  is.  Ask  your  Uncle  why  we're  lagging — ask  him 
why,"  and  his  lips  curled. 

That  awful  restless  energy  about  him,  dominating,  giving  the  impression  of 
power  that  radiated  action  but  ignored  laws — and  wished  to  make  me  forget  them! 
The  story  of  the  falling  barometer,  of  clouds  moving  continuously  swept  on  by 
currents  of  the  upper  air,  had  been  plain  to  Officers  and  Seamen  alike,  but  in  his 
mad  humour  at  me  to  hit  at  his  superior  in  command  was  a  temptation  irresistible. 

Stunned  by  the  innuendo,  to  his  impertinent  suggestion  I  instantly  made 
response  that  appalled  the  speaker,  and  produced  startling  effects. 

As  I  turned,  suddenly  cool  assumption  and  a  threat  of  active  bravado  conveyed 
itself  to  Mr.  White  on  duty,  who  looked  after  me  in  evident  fright  as  I  rushed  up 
the  steps  to  where  the  Captain  strode  to  and  fro. 

"Uncle  William,  Why  don't  you  set  more  sailV  Such  unparalleled  audacity 
was  for  an  instant  as  incomprehensible  as  unexpected.  He  transfixed  me  with  a 
glance — that  stern  countenance  bent,  the  heavy  eyebrows  lowered,  the  mouth 
shut  thin,  and  then  he  thundered  out  with  terrifying  emphasis.  "Because  I  don't 
choose. — Do  you  hear? — Because  I  don't  choose,"  and  I  actually  sprang  back 
as  if  buffeted  by  some  crashing  wave. 

The  one  piece  of  canvas  toward  which  I  had  melo-dramatically  pointed,  as 
if  disgracefully  lacking  and  needing  company,  grew  tight  as  a  drum  head  before 
my  eyes!  Daunted  and  shocked  I  caught  at  the  rail  and  flung  myself  down,  but 
not  before  I  heard  the  formidably  severe  order '"Don't  dare  to  come  up  here  again!" 

His  features  so  sharp,  his  voice  so  angry,  his  eyes  blazing,  all  the  strength  in 
him  pitted  against  nature  herself. 

All  the  elements  of  the  situation  intimidating  and  immoderate,  as  I  stumbled 
down,  and  met  the  stupified  stare  in  his  First  Officer's  eyes.  What  could  it  mean? 
I  think  I  had  given  the  impression  always  of  being  fearless  and  impulsive,  and  it 
had  made  me  popular  at  first,  but  no  one  manoeuvered  for  my  society  now. 

His  own  share  in  this  leveling  catastrophe  must  have  flashed  upon  the  Officer 
as  I  tore  by,  on  into  the  Cabin,  startling  its  occupant,  who  little  knew  as  I  laughed 
tremulously  how  hard  it  was  to  compose  countenance  or  control  voice. 

It  had  been  clear  to  all  in  the  vicinity  on  deck  that  my  brazen,  unabashed, 
hoidenish  impertinence  had  earned  its  proper  punishment.  I  was  well  chastened 
for  the  moment,  but  with  my  usual  defiant  spirit  I  proposed  to  make  light  of  that 
extraordinary  and  displeasing  transgression. 

"The  wind  must  be  whipping  up,  I  just  heard  orders  to  furl  the  last  rag," 
said  my  Aunt;  "is  anything  wrong?" 

"Oh  Kate!  Do  you  think  my  tongue  is  an  unruly  member?"  "I  certainly  do," 
was  the  unhesitating  rejoinder — "What's  the  matter?  Have  you  broken  out 
again?"  "Matter  enough!  I  put  my  foot  in  it  as  well  as  my  tongue.  Uncle  Wil- 
liam is  in  an  awful  rage,  he  told  me  never  to  go  up  there  again.  I  think  he  wants 
me  out  of  his  sight!" — and  I  gave  all  the  details  with  poor  pretense  of  jocularity. 
"Patten  is  the  biggest  fool  to  dare  to  hit  at  your  Uncle;  he's  a  reckless,  jealous, 
and  impudent  man;  and  you  are  as  saucy  and  silly  as  they  make  them!  You  must 
have  lost  your  senses.  Didn't  you  know  better  than  to  offer  advice  to  the  Master 
of  the  Ship?  You  were  crazy,  but  do  keep  out  of  sight  awhile;  perhaps  it  will 
blow  over." 

"I  only  asked  a  simple  question — and  why  do  you  suppose,  he  didn't  set  more 
sail?"  was  my  instant  response. 

"Try  not  to  be  so  foolish  again,"  she  repeated — "and  do  keep  out  of  sight." 

"Oh  Kate!  You  tell  Uncle  William  I  didn't  really  mean  to  be  impertinent; 
do  tell  him  I  told  you  I  was  apt  to  get  in  trouble  with  my  poor  tongue,  an  'unruly 
member',  ask  him  to  excuse  it;  promise  for  me  that  I'll  reform,  and  get  mild  and 
gentle  in  future,  like  his  model,  Mr.  White,  who  looked  as  if  he  was  going  to  faint 
as  I  tore  past  him." 

"How  dark  it  is,"  she  answered,  "and  only  two  o'clock;  four  bells  just  struck." 
And  as  I  looked  up  at  the  sky-light  to  see — what  like  a  heavy  shade,  a  sort  of  curtain 
was  shutting  out  the  light,  a  curious  jolting  swaying  motion  startled  me. 


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It  had  grown  very  dark  as  we  talked,  and  it  was  with  an  apprehensive  sensa- 
tion, but  no  comments  to  my  timid  Aunt,  that  I  turned  and  rushed  through  the 
little  dining  saloon  to  the  door  of  the  small  companion-way  that  opened  on  the  deck. 

It  was  a  paralyzing  second,  a  charge  of  electricity  through  the  nerves.  No  sound 
— No  stir  of  wind — an  extraordinary  steel-blue  blackness  where  our  vessel  waited; 
— a  phenomenon  surrounded  by  a  strange  vibrating  atmosphere — something 
violent  in  that  awful  calm;  an  awful  spectacle  of  a  curling  mountain-high  wall 
of  rushing  black  water;  violent,  sure,  stealthy  and  terrible  in  its  swift  approach; 
a  tremendous  black  sheet  electrical  in  danger. 

Motionless  for  a  second  the  distance  between  us,  and  those  lifted  tons,  that 
wall  of  curling  rushing,  engulfing  black!  It  reared  itself.  It  rolled  up  mightily, 
and  the  ocean  seemed  to  draw  deep  shuddering  breaths  and  then  became  a  boiling 
cauldron. 

I  shook  with  terror,  I  had  never  realized  what  terrors  life  could  hold.  I  had 
never  imagined  anything  so  majestically  awe-inspiring,  so  subtly  terrible  as 
that  sky-high  crested  sheet  of  rolled  up  ocean,  speeding  to  destroy  us.  Something 
like  a  knife  thrust  at  me,  went  into  my  heart,  and  I  knew  fear — fear  physical,  at 
the  approach  of  that  death-dealing  squall.  The  plunging,  the  splashing,  the 
crashing,  the  appalling  uproar  as  it  struck — and  the  ship  heeled  over  into  the 
boiling  abyss!  Our  yard-arms  touching  water,  the  bow-sprit  cracking,  the  sky 
and  sea  beating  on  us  like  blasts  from  a  locomotive!  so  furious  it  came,  from  every 
point  of  the  compass,  laying  on  us  the  primal  curse  of  the  sea. 

I  had  grabbed  the  door-knob,  reached  just  before,  and  it  was  as  if  I  hung  from 
the  ceiling — as  if  the  sea  crashed  in  on  me — as  if  I  went  tumbling  over  and  over, 
suffocating  with  salt  water — the  air  in  my  lungs  on  fire — arms  being  jerked  out — 
the  plunging,  splashing  uproar  beating  down  all  resistance.  I  was  burning  and 
choking,  gasping  and  shuddering  as  if  going  far  down  below  depths;  Sun,  Sky, 
Earth,  Sea,  all  things  were  being  wiped  out,  all  a  welter  of  foam  and  mountain 
walls  of  water;  waves  striking  and  burying  us;  spitting  squirts  of  lightning;  ominous 
thunder,  terrible  menacing  suffocating  sights  and  sounds.  Death  it  seemed  blowing 
into  aching  lungs  as  I  clung  to  that  door  handle,  as,  after  the  terrific  squall  had 
struck  us  and  with  a  receding  roar  the  ship  pitched  on  her  beam  ends,  it  was  as  if 
a  hideous  catastrophe  came  upon  the  world  and  it  had  the  face  of  instantaneous 
perfidious  death. 

As  the  ship  righted,  shuddering,  staggering,  rolling,  pitching  and  plunging 
through  mountainous  tons  of  water,  it  strained  and  shook  and  creaked  as  if  itself 
suffocated  and  dying,  and  we  were  flung  upwards  and  backwards,  lifted  to  the 
tumbling  black  sky  and  drenched  in  the  dreadful  black  depths.  I  clung  and 
clung,  sick,  weak,  abject,  and  heard  cries  above  the  blasts  as  we  lifted  and  rushed 
like  a  toy-balloon  against  the  strain,  the  awful  strain  tearing  at  the  fore-masts; 
those  great  masts  and  yards  thrashing  as  if  about  to  be  uprooted! 

It  seemed  like  fighting  a  way  through  Hell,  the  ship  trembling  in  every  rivit, 
the  violent  pitching,  the  blinding  spray,  the  broken  bow-sprit,  the  snapped  jiboon; 
shouts  and  cries  shrilling  through  the  storm — "Hell's  broke  loose",  came  to  me 
above  the  din — as  I  still  clung  to  that  door-knob,  which  seemed  again  suspended 
from  the  ceiling. 

Fear  looses  imagination  and  had  its  way  with  me,  yet  in  a  sense  it  was  selfless — 
a  film  of  chaotic  impressions,  but  in  the  second  of  terrific  impact  only  one  thought 
—Mother — Mother— Mother  I  shall  never  sec  Mother,  as  over  ami  over  we 
went,  and  I  knew  we  would  never  have  come  up  again  if  there  had  been  one  thread 
of  canvas;  enough  to  hold  a  cap-full  of  wind  and  we  would  never  have  righted. 

I  saw  through  my  own  drenched  hair  and  staring  eves,  lungs  hot,  head  aching 
and    sick    I"   diz/iness    wit  1 1    fright,    thai    the   Squall    was   lessening    in    power.      We 

had  been  snatched  oul  oi  a  vortex,  and  then  out  of  the  path  of  tin-  Tornado.    The 

ihip  Still    .hook  and   yawed   in  ;uul   fro  as  if  life  were  going  out   ol   her,  but    the  ir- 

re  tstible  Forcei   between  Infinity  and  Infinity,  thai  had  shaken,  bruised,  twisted 
and  scarred  us, had  answered  to  Divine  Mandate    and  b>  God's  Grace  we  were 
I'd  and  saved. 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


THE    SEA    FIGHTER 

Although  living  under  the  shelter  of  high-mindedness  and  tradition,  old- 
fashioned  as  they  are  today  as  far  as  view-point  goes,  I  had  never  looked  out 
upon  the  world  from  our  own  or  any  other  windows  with  any  timidity,  although 
often  with  much  imagination.  Things  might  be  marvelous,  they  were  not  fright- 
ening. My  own  opinion  of  my  own  value  rose  and  fell  quite  in  accordance  with 
my  mood.  So  many  changes  of  thought  and  feeling  are  barely  understood  by  us, 
even  when  they  take  place  in  ourselves.  How  then  can  we  fancy  we  understand 
when  they  take  place  in  others?  The  night-mare  conflict,  confused,  intense, 
terrific,  ploughed  and  cut  impressions  that  would  leave  their  print  on  the  mind 
forever.  And  this  moment  something  rises  before  me,  sinister,  wild,  terrifying, 
as  if  standing  on  earth's  last  rampart,  as  if  awaiting  again  the  victorious  onslaught 
of  that  unquiet  overwhelming  pitiless  sea. 

It  is  havoc  once  more,  for  I — an  abject,  bedraggled  helpless  heap  in  that  door- 
way, had  discovered  that  calamity  could  engender  undreamed  of  calamities 
even  worse  to  bear.  It  had  seemed  to  me  in  that  hour  that  steadily  the  waters, 
burdened  by  death-dealing  waves,  climbed  higher  in  grinding,  crashing  destruction 
that  shook  and  deafened  in  that  Satanic  conflict,  while  the  beseiged  ship  shivered 
continually. 

I  heard  voices  drowned  by  the  booming  of  the  sea  and  wind,  but  rising  and 
insistent  at  intervals  through  a  momentary  silence.  "My  God,  Sir,  we  can't 
stand  this" — some  unheard  order,  and  the  "Aye,  Aye,  Sir"  was  cried  huskily. 

"'Tis  the  Devil's  own  time  we  are  having,"  and  a  sailor  staggered  by  with 
scared  face,  shook  a  drenched  fist  to  Heaven,  and  a  blasphemous  oath  seemed 
hurled  at  the  angry  insidious  waves  uplifting  to  engulf  us!  Water  pouring  upon  us 
unendingly,  great  seas  boarding  us  thunderously,  and  we  shook  so  pitifully,  any 
one  would  believe  the  end  imminent. 

Still  huddled  against  the  door-jamb  I  watched  the  forked  flashes  chase  each 
other  across  the  lessening  darkness  of  the  Heavens,  peal  on  peal  crashing  as  the 
thunder  followed  in  rapid  deafening  succession.  Then  seconds  of  volcanic  quiet 
that  threatened  to  explode  the  next  moment;  great  walls  of  water  welling  us  in, 
great  depths  of  water  luring  us  down,  and  great  torrents  of  water  from  the  relent- 
less skies — as  if  we  still  raced  headlong  with  the  battlements  of  the  storm — but 
its  force  had  been  lessening. 

And  then — Oh  then — My  Uncle  entered — shook  off  his  oil-skins,  coat  and  cap 
and  storm  boots — his  quick  penetrating  look  held  kindness,  sympathy  and  an 
elusive  twinkle.  Yes,  he  smiled,  and  something  happened  to  my  sight,  every- 
thing clouded  over.  When  I  could  see  again  my  unbelieving  eyes  met  affection 
and  understanding.  Such  a  smile — when  I  thought  he  had  forgotten  to  smile — 
and  his  lips  twitched,  and  I  heard  in  tones  almost  gay, — "Brace  up,  my  dear, — 
Now, you  know  why  I  didn't  set  more  sail;  a  rag  of  canvas  and  we'd  never  have 
righted."  And,  to  my  gaze,  suddenly  he  seemed  mighty,  seemed  capable  of  lift- 
ing obstacles  from  any  path  or  of  vaulting  over  them.  His  very  shoulders,  as  he 
shook  free  from  the  dripping  oil-skins,  had  grown  powerful. 

To  th,ink  I  had  run  foul  of  his  wrath  those  hours  before,  and  here  he  was,  a 
beacon  light  of  hope  and  promise — and  speaking  gently,  without  coldness  to  me. 
— "Don't  give  way  now — we  shall  need  you.  Rest  easy,  brace  yourself  well — 
We  are  in  for  a  spell  of  dirty  weather— It  looks  bad,  but  you  know  things  are 
never  as  bad  as  they  seem." 

"But  Oh!,"  I  whispered,  "they  are  a  great  deal  worse  than  I  ever  thought 
they  could  be."  He  patted  my  shoulder  with  reassuring  touch  as  tears  gathered 
and  fell  in  great  drops. 

"You're  brave  and  my  niece — I  expect  you  to  be  worthy  of  your  name;  Re- 
member your  Aunt,  and  we've  got  another  feeble  one  in  Illsley;  He  had  a  nasty 
fall,  washed  overboard  but  for  one  of  the  Watch;  You're  not  to  give  way  now, 
don't  forget  I  depend  on  you." 

It  is  in  crises  that  cowards  are  unmasked  and  heroes  born — for  great  melting 

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power  is  the  crucible  of  danger  on  land  or  on  sea.  Fear  had  overwhelmed  me. 
Tragedy  lay  crouching  under  that  boiling  maelstrom  of  water.  But  I  turned 
from  looking  at  the  dense  black  clouds  and  roaring  ocean,  obeying  his  signal  to 
follow  and  join  his  distracted  wife  whose  eyes  as  she  met  her  husband's  were 
full  of  wild  helpless  terror.  In  the  path  of  the  tornado,  where  could  one  flee — 
the  air  quivering  with  the  hurricane  velocity  of  the  wind.  The  awful  peril  upon 
her — and  no  place  of  refuge!  She  had  been  whirled  unresisting  here  and  there — 
no  zone  of  calm — only  revolving  destroying  chaos;  shaken,  beaten,  bruised;  and 
now  with  a  heart-broken  cry  she  called  his  name. 

In  strange  ways,  in  strange  growths,  in  dark  or  bright  dreams,  in  joy  or  terror 
confidence  is  restored  and  flowers  in  us.  The  sharp  gusts  of  wind  had  hurled  all 
possessions  from  tables,  shelves,  or  chairs,  but  the  lashing  of  the  rain  upon  the 
cabin  roof,  as  well  as  my  Uncle's  quiet  words  and  manner,  had  a  soothing  sound 
and  lifted  some  of  those  devastating  fears,  since  but  for  the  faith  in  the  Master 
above  and  the  Master  of  the  ship,  I,  too,  should  have  felt  my  brain  frozen  and  all 
courage  dead.  And  my  poor  Aunt,  after  he  left  us  to  return  to  his  post,  in  terror 
and  half  coherent  speech,  uttered  her  creed.  "If  I  did  not  believe  in  William  as 
I  do  in  God  I'd  know  we  were  going  down,  trapped  here  in  this  Cabin,  everlasting 
depths  yawning  to  swallow  us." 

It  was  the  utter  strangeness  in  the  situation,  as  if,  someway,  I  no  longer  be- 
longed to  myself  prisoned  as  we  were  in  darkness,  only  an  occasional  belated 
flash  of  lightning  flooding  the  interior  of  our  sheltered  Cabin.  And  through  the 
thrash  of  rain  and  the  growling  farewell  of  the  hurricane,  I  felt  a  sudden  sympathy; 
I  felt  a  gladness  that  she  had  not  looked  down  into  the  crazy  roaring  engulfing 
torrents,  or  up  to  see  the  terrible  advance  of  those  lifted  tons  of  crested  waves, 
the  awful  sky  above  that  awful  water!  The  murk  of  night  darkness,  of  the  con- 
stant flickering  flashes,  could  never  convey  the  horror  of  the  sight  as  I  had  watched 
it — She  had  been  spared  that  vision  of  death.  It  was  up  to  me  now  to  keep  her 
from  brooding  on  danger.  Any  clap  of  thunder  made  me  conscious  of  a  feeling 
of  responsibility.  Did  not  my  Uncle  say  he  "depended  on  me".  That  thrilled 
and  changed  my  fundamental  mood  from  fright  to  purpose.  Fear  could  not 
wholly  possess  me  thereafter.  Some  stir  of  electricity,  some  message  of  the  atmo- 
sphere about  him  made  for  sudden  tension. 

The  tempest's  sultry  dark  continued — and  all  that  night  in  the  horrible  black- 
ness the  ship  seemed  pitching  and  rolling,  rolling,  and  pitching,  as  if  in  a  hurricane. 
Always  the  wind  shrieking  over  the  Cabin  and  through  the  storm  darkened  close 
fastened  port-holes;  shrieking  its  awful  threats,  as  if  no  power  of  Heaven  or  earth 
could  save  us  from  crashing  into  immeasurable  depths.  I  tried,  how  I  tried  to 
speak  cheerfully. 

The  rails  had  been  put  in  our  beds  diagonally,  (they  were  not  berths  narrow 
and  possible  to  cling  to)  and  we  had  to  hold  on  with  all  strength  to  keep  from  being 
hurled  out.  As  the  ship  rocked  and  rocked,  reeled  and  reeled,  dipped  and  recovered, 
I  was  only  aware  of  Father  and  Mother  safely  at  home — waiting  and  waiting 
for  me — and  1  cried  to  them,  and  cried  in  vain — mental  discipline  for  a  moment 
in  entire  abeyance.  It  was  so  far  from  home.  The  ship  forever  Straining  in  those 
rough  heart-breaking  seas. 

It  grew  impossible  to  think  the  stormy  waters  we  sailed  were  part  oi  the  waters 
that  broke  on  the  shores  of  our  home  country,  that  the  heave  oi  the  sea  under  us 
was  the  same  heave  we  might  feel  if  sailing  on  our  own  Lake  in  storms!  The  \  .isi 
boundlessness   of   the   ocean!      My    thoughts   went    out    into   it    to  eome   back    and 

refresh  themselves  with  pictures  thai  emerged  from  far  reaches,  from  the  shores 
of  a  Lake  thai  Bang  and  sang  to  loved  ones  beyond  all  call.  Sleep  until  utter 
exhau  i ion  Bel  in,  was  impossible. 

The  tumuli  of  the  Bea  was  so  thai  no  other  sounds  could  impinge  on  conscious- 
ness, Bave  when,  as  the  days  followed,  I  could  catch  glimpses  and  exchange  a 
sentence  with  the  Captain  hurrying  by.  "Whai  is  it,  another  squall?  Is  it  verj 
danger >u  ■  '.'" 

"Once  and  for  all.  Btop  thinking  a  I  tout  danger.    Sit  easy  and  brace  /our  feet. 


/■ .     t»6 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


Cool,  confident  and  reassuring  that  look  of  resolution  never  altered,  with  strength 
in  reserve  he  remained  calm  and  collected;  no  shadow  of  alarm  crossed  his  coun- 
tenance; always  his  was  the  expression  of  the  Sea  Fighter,  and  he  surrounded 
himself  with  an  extraordinary  dignity.  Oh!  the  comfort  of  such  serenity  and 
watchfulness,  and  having  him  look  as  if  there  was  nothing  to  fear. 

It  was  the  year  of  the  "Great  Eastern"  half-wreck,  the  largest  steamer  afloat; 
havoc  and  destruction  reigned  for  days  and  weeks,  while  helplessly  the  craft  of 
every  sort  labored  in  those  terrifically  threatening  seas.  No  one  who  experienced 
those  amazing  September  gales  can  ever  forget  them.  One  gale  succeeded  another 
and  each  gale  let  up  none  of  its  fury — night  after  night  and  no  stars  came  up. 
That  was  a  September  Seamen  or  Shipping  men,  or  passengers  crossing,  will  al- 
ways remember.  Wrecks  multiplied  themselves — wrecks  everywhere — coasts 
littered — Liners  and  Vessels  that  escaped  staggering  into  Port — everything 
battered;  terrific  ordeals,  and  Ships  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  all  meeting 
disaster  or  utter  destruction. 

I  do  not  think  it  was  that  we  ever  really  lost  direction  in  that  howling  waste, 
that  roaring  tempest-tossed  tractlessness,  but  we  were  unable  to  hold  our  course, 
were  driven  repeatedly  out  of  it,  and  for  three  full  weeks  beat  about  in  storm  after 
storm  which  in  its  endless  and  terrible  succession  froze  something  in  brain  and 
heart.  My  minimum  of  sea  experience  made  the  sight  of  sailors  going  aloft  always 
dizzying,  the  soaring  mast-heads,  the  bare  ropes  and  swaying  yards,  the  inextricable 
ringing  orders  when  waves  hoisted  us  high  and  then  hurled  us  giddily  into  the 
trough  of  mighty  seas,  made  the  ocean  haunt  one  with  its  deafening  roars.  And 
when  the  monstrous  tumult  lessened,  or  a  little  lull  allowed,  I  crept  to  the  Com- 
panion-way, to  the  door  where  a  seat  had  been  made  and  clamped  to  the  wall. 

It  was  Mr.  White  whom  my  Uncle  had  directed  to  fix  the  place  of  safety,  and 
he  kindly  watched  opportunities  to  fasten  me  in,  passing  ropes  through  the  hasps 
or  staples  and  buckling  me  into  a  sort  of  harness,  so  that  terrific  motion  could  not 
shake  me  from  that  coign  of  vantage.  He  would  make  me  safe  with  sailor-like 
finality  and  promptitude.  He  was  entirely  and  absolutely  the  seaman,  shutting 
out  everything  that  could  interfere  with  duty  and  yet  taking  thought  for  my  com- 
fort and  freedom.  He  never  lacked  the  sailor  instinct  but  had  a  fund  of  feeling 
to  spend  in  kindness. 

Our  relations  with  each  other  are  a  strange  and  subtle  matter,  and  they  change 
and  shift  as  if  by  a  Magician's  touch.  Without  any  will  of  ours  something  draws 
us  nearer,  matters  are  different,  the  distance  is  bridged,  and  rationally  we  have 
changed — changed  in  each  other's  sight.  And  slowly,  with  that  Second  Officer, 
I  felt  friendship  was  being  established.  He  was  the  first  to  give  me  hope  and  point 
out  the  abatement  of  trouble.  It  was  as  if  someone  had  lifted  a  heavy  weight  from 
the  top  of  my  head  as  well  as  heart  when  he  said,  "You're  a  brave  sailor".  As 
that  sounded  in  my  ears  I  choked  with  a  sudden  sensation  that  made  answers 
impossible.  He  pointed  to  the  detached,  and  wind-driven,  grey  and  coppery 
clouds,  that  rose  like  marching  legions  and  charged  like  horses  up  the  sky — to 
the  ocean  still  leaden,  that  scowling  spread  its  endless  spaces  towards  the  far 
horizon.     "It  may  not  look  so,  but  we  think  the  Line-storms  are  about  over." 

The  wild  willful  winds  which  had  so  long  sounded  the  anger  of  the  Gods,  the 
menace  of  man's  minuteness  against  the  power  of  the  Universe,  ceased  to  twist 
in  me  and  wrench  away  hope.  Could  it  be  that  we  were  coming  back  to  warm 
bright  life?  To  walk  with  beauty  once  more,  to  become  a  part  of  it?  "Overhead 
a  star  or  two  shone  last  night,"  he  added,  and  Oh!  that  very  evening  the  young 
moon  hung,  wistful,  sweet  and  piercingly  lovely  as  the  veiling  clouds  parted  at 
intervals  to  let  in  that  Heavenly  promise.  Boiling  cauldrons  of  water  and  white- 
capped  waves  were  forever  rising,  but  there  was  faint  moonshine  lightening  the 
black  yet  glittering  tumult  of  waters  as  we  ripped  along — the  wind  whipping  up 
behind  us  at  last  with  great  and  long-needed  advantage  to  our  speed. 

And  when  I  could  emerge  with  surety  from  my  shelter,  with  extra  ropes  I  was 
fastened,  above  and  outside,  against  the  Bulk-head  of  the  Cabin;  where  up  and 
down  in  view  walked  my  Uncle,  his  eyes,  his  ears,  his  limbs,  every  ounce  and  atom 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


of  him  watching  and  at  work.  Always  at  work,  against  driving  winds — reefing 
topsails,  furling  mainsail,  speeding  us  along  when  possible,  or  with  bare  poles 
reeling  in  the  deep.  He  was  one  with  the  ship,  he  had  no  fear.  There  would  be 
moments  when  pandemonium  raged  to  unitiated  eyes  and  ears,  with  all  the  ar- 
tillery of  the  sky  massed  above,  all  the  cavalry  of  the  Universe  ready  to  charge 
through  air  and  water. 

Would  the  fury  of  the  waves  never  cease,  threatening  to  settle  again  into  a 
steady  roaring  forty  mile  gale?  The  sea  growing  heavier  day  after  day,  and  we 
steadily  blown  out  of  our  course.  It  seemed  what  it  was  not,  that  we  were  being 
driven  beyond  possibility  of  return. 

Often  as  I  sat  roped  in  against  that  Cabin  bulk-head,  the  tossing  waves  hurling 
those  angry  white  crests  sky-high,  gathering  and  retreating  with  roaring  hisses 
for  another  attack,  often  I  felt  breathless,  so  high  they  were  as  we  sank  down. 
The  report  of  each  impact  like  a  death  warrant,  yet  the  booming  guns  of  those 
mighty  walls,  walls  of  water  curling,  advancing,  lifting  and  breaking,  stirred  in 
the  blood  strangely,  and  strangely  no  longer  like  the  wrath  of  the  God's;  but  as  if 
we  were  gallantly  adventuring;  no  longer  in  dread  or  defiance  but  with  renewed 
spurts  of  returning  energy.  And  when  the  sun  slowly  struggled  out  of  hiding, 
the  blaze  of  its  light  enveloped  and  warmed,  sufficient,  benefecent;  with  indescrib- 
able sweetness  however  momentary,  as  if  the  exquisiteness  of  unbroken  sunshine 
would  sometime  return,  and  would  last  forever. 

When  the  light  of  the  sky  had  gone  out  the  tiny  light  of  our  ship  winked  aloft, 
and  though  not  definitely  recognized,  it  was  like  childhood's  clinging  fears  of 
dwarfs  and  giants,  of  monsters  and  mysteries  clearing  away,  when  new  warmth 
in  the  air,  the  odors  of  rain  and  salt,  and  an  echoing  silence  above  waves  and  winds 
called  again  to  cheer  and  uplift;  to  dream  again  in  answer  to  the  instinctive  urge 
within;  dreams  of  home  that  winged  and  sent  their  happy  cry  into  the  high  Heavens. 
Beauty  tantalized,  and  lured  and  challenged,  and  smiled  and  sped  further  out 
toward  the  horizon.  Tomorrow  and  tomorrow  and  many  October  tomorrows 
were  bearing  us  onward — and  it  seemed  miraculous  that  once  more  we  could  eat 
and  sleep,  smile  and  talk,  and  almost  forget  there  were  vastnesses  beyond  and 
difficulties  and  dangers  yet  piling  up. 

I  tried,  between  times  on  deck  or  from  my  solidly  hasped  chair  in  the  com- 
panionway,  to  visit  Illsley  after  the  regular  hours  with  my  Aunt.  Illsley,  with 
steady  sensations  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  had  yet  a  vein  of  frankness  in  him 
that  made  for  description  and  confidence  when  I  was  in  sight.  His  frankness 
was  startling  and  not  conventional. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Patten  lately?  Surly  dog!  He's  a  damn  bad-tempered 
man — jealous  of  his  superiors  on  sea  and  land.  Jealous  of  the  Captain,  jealous 
of  me.  He  glowers  at  everybody— heard  him  yell  at  that  nice  fellow  White — 
"What  in  thunder  are  you  doing?" — Impudent  fellow!  he  ought  to  have  been 
knocked  down.  White  has  decency.  He  looks  in  and  inquires  after  a  fellow  once 
in  a  while.  He's  brave  and  bronzed  and  weather-beaten,  better  looking  than 
that  idiot  Patten  forever  hanging  about  you.  He  has  no  manners  anyway;  I 
wonder  you  can  stand  him!" 

Which  brought  a  smile  and  sudden  recollection  of  Patten's  own  remarks, 
redolent  of  contempt  of  the  "Land  Lubber". 

"He's  taken  to  his  berth  and  good  riddance — the  wall-eyed  lubber."  Which 
was  a  comment  I  overheard,  and  the  bo'suns  answer,  as  he  spat  tobacco  juice  into 
the  atmosphere.  "If  that  fo'castle  fool  hadn't  grabbed  him,  only  let  him  wash 
overboard,  we'd  been  better  off.     Lord  help  him! — he's  a  rum  'un — poor  bloke." 

But  poor  Illsley  was  sometimes  almost  unconscious  during  spells  when  we  had 
so  little  light,  and,  when  I  tried  to  relieve  in  small  ways  or  spoke,  it  was  an  elTort 
for  him  to  open  his  eyes.  His  condition  puzzled  and  distressed  me.  He  had  lost 
every  bit  of  natural  colour  and  looked  someway  shrunken  as  he  lay  with  half- 
closed  eyes  in  a  sort  of  pitiful  isolation.  There  was  something  in  his  look  ot  misery 
thai  stirred  sympathy  and  desire  to  help,  and  I  used  to  try  repeatedly  to  arouse 
and  entertain  him. 


Pagt  i  f8 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


"I'm  sick — I  don't  think  I'll  live  to  get  home — Don't  go  yet — sit  there  a  little 
longer,"  he  would  add,  although  he  found  everything  I  suggested  utterly  distaste- 
ful. "Sea-sickness — fools  that  never  have  it — telling  me  that  most  of  sea-sickness 
is  just  nervous — just  a  damned  lie — and  this  Cabin's  ghastly — lying  here  eternally 
— wish  some  of  them  had  it,  or  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea." 

He  had  neither  method  nor  reticence  in  speech,  and  declared  that  no  human 
soul  could  tell  how  long  the  days  were  or  how  miserable  the  nights — helpless 
in  his  berth,  desperately  sick  with  no  one  to  care  whether  he  lived  or  died.  Some- 
times indeed  he  seemed  too  feeble  to  feel  anything  mattered.  Sometimes  indeed 
he  seemed  too  feeble  to  care  himself;  as  if  everything  had  left  him,  all  courage 
heaved  up;  and  when  I  tried  to  call  some  back  out  of  the  depths  within,  the  dazed, 
weakened,  and  disgusted  passenger  would  seldom  answer  reasonably.  He  wasn't 
sane.  He  had  neither  endurance  nor  patience.  It  seemed  terrible  to  suffer  so  from 
such  a  simple  cause,  incomprehensible  to  me  who  never  had  a  single  qualm. 
And  he  was  a  man  too — had  collapsed  altogether — thrown  into  such  strange  dis- 
order— but  my  Aunt  sympathetic,  and  my  Uncle  scornful,  assured  me  he'd  come 
out  all  right.  "Nothing  killing  in  his  sea-sickness,"  which  reduced  my  alarm, 
though  Kate  maintained  stoutly  from  profound  experience,  "It  was  killing;  a 
deadly,  nasty  enemy,  and  serious  enough  Heaven  knew!" 

One  day  with  the  whole  world  tilting,  rising  in  the  air,  dropping  into  depths — 
a  plane  soaring  and  then  sinking,  even  resentment  left  him,  as  I  strove  to  amuse 
by  telling  how  they  all  looked  in  heavy  oil-skins  and  sou'west'rs,  and  repeating 
their  words — profanity  was  becoming  easy — at  least  to  quote  it! 

There  was  one  wheelsman  whose  beady  black  eyes  always  held  anger,  and  I 
could  never  feel  comfortable  when  he  looked  in  my  direction,  for  his  lips  seemed 
to  snarl  curses.  I  felt  a  tingling  run  over  my  body  once  as  his  rat-like  eyes  glared 
at  me. 

I  heard  muttered  words — "Evil-Eye  on  this  damned  ship".  The  wheelsman 
was  being  relieved  and  the  two  talked  rapidly  and  huskily  for  a  second,  puncturing 
their  sentences  with  expectorations.  They  had  black  deep-set  eyes  under  low- 
drawn  black  brows;  heavy-set  men  with  hunched  shoulders,  swarthy,  like  some 
desert  dwellers,  cruelly  wide-jawed  like  prize  fighters;  indomitable  they  looked 
and  dangerous. 

And  now  Illsley  frightened  me.  He  smiled  at  my  vivid  recital,  opened  wide 
his  eyes.  "Who  do  they  think  is  the  Jonah?  You  or  me?  They  hate  us  both, 
that's  plain — especially  that  Portugee  with  hooped  earrings  and  dirty  red  scarf — 
he'd  murder  anybody." 

I  felt  as  if  a  change  had  taken  place  in  every  fibre  of  my  being,  the  suggestion 
so  startled  and  shocked  me.  "Who  was  the  Jonah?"  It  felt  like  some  weird  night- 
mare conflict — and  then — "Ease  up  ahoy! — Sit  tight — The  wind's  up,  we're 
weathering  fine,"  came  to  my  ears,  and  I  turned  to  notice  Illsley's  chin  in  the  air, 
and  to  know  he  was  better  because  there  was  again  appealing  to  him  the  un- 
questioned fact  that  he  was  a  superior  being  endowed  with  charm.  Yes,  he  was 
recovering  normal  balance  in  his  own  high  opinion  of  his  own  gifts,  and  his  satis- 
faction in  them.  In  me  there  was  instantly  a  subtraction  of  sympathy,  and  all 
attraction  of  any  sort  lessened.  Yet  he  was  to  be  pitied,  he  had  no  support  of 
faith  or  any  respect  and  appreciation  for  his  superiors,  while  the  other  invalid 
had  the  comfort  of  belief  whenever  her  husband  assured  her  all  was  going  well. 

Even  my  Aunt  however,  sank  at  times  into  fathomless  depths.  The  wind 
day  after  day  seemed  to  achieve  the  impossible  and  redouble  its  insane  strength, 
but  at  last  it  was  carrying  us  forward.  There  were  feverish  moments  when  the 
ship  "Tore  through  those  seas  like  a  tramping  stallion",  the  blasts  tearing  off  the 
tops  of  the  waves  and  hurling  them  upon  the  ship  in  solid  sheets. 

"Oh  to  set  eyes  on  a  smear  of  smoke,  to  get  a  message  there!"  said  White 
to  Patten;  I  had  learned  to  get  about  with  the  whole  sea  whipped  into  white 
lather  and  as  they  lunged  by,  heard  the  curt  response — "They'll  think  us  in 
Davy  Jones'  Locker  if  they  get  no  word;  Lucky  if  we  don't  end  there!" 

Sails  come  and  go  along  well  traveled  routes  but  the  immense  field  of  waters 


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had  not  been  parted  for  us  by  the  passage  of  ship  or  steamer  for  all  those  weeks 
we  had  been  driven  out  of  our  course.  The  young  Third-Mate  stood  at  the  main 
mast-head  one  morning,  he  and  the  bo'sun  had  been  a  few  minutes  before  climb- 
ing over  the  lofty  spars  looking  for  weaknesses. 

Sharply  the  cry  from  the  Look-out— "A  sail,  A  sail!"  brought  all  hands  on 
deck,  all  eyes  straining  for  sign  or  signal  as  the  colours  were  hoisted.  How  ex- 
citedly we  watched  the  flapping  little  flags  that  exchanged  names  and  ports  and 
assurance  of  safety.  It  was  the  fine  steamer  "City  of  Boston"  of  the  Inman 
Line,  that  was  now  to  carry  longed  for  news  of  our  well  being  and  exact  where- 
abouts to  eager  owners  and  anxious  friends. 

That  day  the  murmur  of  the  running  seas  along  the  hull  was  music  to  my  ears. 
I  saw  the  clouds  go  by  in  flocks;  waves  marching  down  upon  the  ship,  rushing 
our  bulwarks  and  even  thundering  across  the  decks,  but  light  was  in  my  heart, 
and  light  seemed  springing  up  from  the  horizon's  edge  above  the  clouds,  above 
the  yard-arms  of  the  fore-mast — a  promise  of  radiance.  The  steamer  had  passed 
without  halting  or  holding  for  a  moment,  the  steady  thrust  of  screws  bearing  her 
swiftly  beyond  sight.  But  we  had  "spoken  her",  and  my  heart  seemed  sailing 
with  her  toward  the  longed  for  shore. 

But  there  were  colourless  days  dawning  one  after  another,  and  then  stealthily, 
unremittingly  the  Fog — Fog  smothering  the  sea,  dull,  cold,  obstinate,  blurring 
everything.  It  crept  back  going  down  low  in  the  West,  down  in  a  huge  gulf  that 
blended  the  grey  waters  and  air  and  sea,  and  then  back  in  stifling  mists.  All 
enveloped  in  fog — the  vessel  making  slow  uncertain  progress  surrounded  by  that 
impenetrable  density,  everywhere  making  for  unconcealed  anxiety. 

I  believe  they  feared  the  fog  more  than  any  of  the  preceding  storms,  unknown 
dangers  always  lurking  unperceived  and  ready.  Fate  at  the  Helm — it  must  have 
been  a  blind  feeling  that  only  Fate  had  charge — that  they  were  working  auto- 
matically against  atmospheric  conditions — Fate — not  skill  at  the  Helm — lurking 
disaster  on  every  side — and  a  steady  moaning  of  the  fog-horn,  depressing  and  ghast- 
ly. The  haze  shut  down  so  thick  some  hours,  that  everyone  looked  ghostly,  or 
like  disembodied  spirits  wavering  to  and  fro. 

Nothing  could  really  be  discerned  ahead  or  around  us,  everything  unearthly 
and  deceptive  in  that  fog.  "Why  strike  me  blue!"  shrieked  the  Bo'sun,  "it's  a 
Hell  of  a  night,"  as  the  whole  Watch  came  tumbling  up  with  scared  faces,  staggering 
and  sprawling  through  the  forecastle  hatch,  and  cursing  at  the  Officer  who  had 
called  "All  hands  on  deck". 

Such  vivid  sounds  and  sights  now  return  in  imagination  even  as  I  knew  them 
then.  Even  now  the  cries  come  back — "Lower  away  smartly" — and  sailors 
springing  and  tumbling  and  climbing,  all  noise  and  seeming  confusion;  shouts, 
shrieks,  yells,  as  orders  were  given  or  obeyed.  The  wail  of  the  wind  through  the 
bare  rigging,  the  continuous  untiring  volley  of  the  waves;  waters  scurrying  aft 
our  hatches  and  deckhouses;  the  plunge  of  the  bows  into  smothering  seas,  ir- 
resistible and  enormous,  and  when  the  Watches  changed — when  the  ship's  bell 
rang  eight  times  the  sailors  looked  like  ghosts  in  that  unconquerable  fog. 

Always  the  Captain  sounding  through  the  sea-fog  wall,  and  Officers  passing 
forward  his  commands  to  the  crew  as  sails  slapped  against  the  mast,  and  the 
blasts  from  that  fog-horn  belched  out  mournfully. 

I  often  shuddered  inwardly  over  the  hollow  warning  and  clanging  of  the  horn 
at  the  bows,  like  a  brazen  gong  or  like  a  wail  muffled  and  distant.  The  mental 
vision  of  something  alarming,  of  events  and  accidents  out  of  the  common  appealed 
incessantly.  1  had  more  panic  then  than  in  the  days  of  seeing  catastrophe  from 
hurricane  winds  and  waves.  It  was  always  now  suspense,  sensations  that  made 
the  heaving  of  the  vessel  like  dropping  into  some  abyss.  No  defense  From  that 
heavy  encroaching  mist;  thick,  clammy,  cold  it  felt,  ami  ruthless  it  seemed  in 
power  to  increase  misery  and  danger. 

Sometimes  cries  and  greal  banging     wild  cries  they  sounded  as  they  all  worked 

o  madly  furling  and  binding  the  sail     Sails  thai  threatened  to  break  loose  when 

the  weather  allowed  Borne  canvas     reefing  and   floundering  up  and  down  the 


Pagi  i-i 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


masts — sometimes  something  seemed  to  go  wrong — orders  rising  to  shrieks,  and 
that  man  bracing  himself  against  the  wheel  almost  losing  hold,  I  thought,  while 
other  sailors  were  reinforcing  here  and  there;  binding  the  boom  it  looked  like, 
catching  at  ropes  to  gather  the  flapping  canvas — the  wind  on  the  quarter!  One 
had  to  shout  to  make  himself  heard. 

I  caught  sight  of  the  Captain  once  when  they  had  been  long  busy  and  confusion 
seemed  rife,  and  he  looked  dark  and  worried.  He  stood  like  some  Statue  near  to 
the  Wheel — and  I  watched  long  after  to  intercept  his  descent. 

"Isn't  it  going  to  calm  down  Uncle  William?"  For  the  first  time  impatient — 
"I  don't  know,  I  wish  to  God  I  had  Kate  and  you  out  of  it." 

And  again  and  again  the  wail  of  that  fog-horn — The  Captain  turned  instantly 
as  a  breath  of  sharper  wind  touched  us.  "All  hands  on  deck  to  shorten  sail", 
and,  ascending  to  his  solitary  post,  tall  and  cool  and  steady  he  walked  to  and  from 
the  Compass — "Keep  a  sharp  look  out",  and  to  the  man  at  the  Wheel,  "Hard 
down  the  Helm" — and  some  aloft  and  some  on  deck  shouted  back  and  forth. 
Often  hearing  the  orders  I  would  hear  one  or  more  deliver  himself  of  such  a  flow 
of  explosive  as  only  seamen  could  evoke.  Once  I  caught  a  cry  again  from  Mr. 
Patten,  "My  God,  Sir,  we  can't  stand  it,"  and  at  the  unheard  response — "Aye, 
Aye,  Sir,"  he  answered  huskily. 

It  seemed  as  we  sank  into  the  trough  of  the  seas  that  those  mountain  high 
masses  of  water  would  break  over  and  swallow  us.  Seas  lifting  to  engulf  us  when- 
ever we  swung  broadside  to  them.  I  have  never  lost  the  sensation  of  looking 
up,  up,  up.  We  were  continuously  tossed  like  a  toy  on  Alpine  waves,  and  it  seemed 
a  hullabaloo  of  winds,  of  winds  forever  shrieking  and  scudding  across  the  fog- 
veiled  indigo  sky. 

I  was  far  oftener  fastened  outside  than  during  the  earlier  gales,  and  I  heard 
sinister  mutterings  sometimes  that  I  could  not  understand.  One  hour  came 
when  I  overheard  what  made  me  think  of  a  snake  ready  to  strike.  That  Portugese 
with  the  swinging  gold  hoops  in  his  ears  spoke  savagely  as  he  stepped  up  to  steer — 
"To  the  devil  with  the  Jonahs." — I  heard  not  only  that  guttural  intonation  but 
a  sybillant  hiss  as  his  companion  resigning  the  Wheel  said — "What  you  mean 
you  furrin'  devil?"  But  the  man  still  blazed,  and  hung  his  head  and  hands  in 
looks  and  movement  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  recesses  of  a  dark  soul.  There 
was  a  dark  marlevolence  in  their  whispers.  A  fluttering  fear  seized  me  and  I  de- 
sired to  escape.  My  own  personality  was  inarticulate,  helpless,  without  volition 
as  I  listened  in  paralyzing  dread  and  yet  with  an  illusion  of  unreality. 

Rat-like  eyes  ready  to  glare — venomous  glances — and  the  repetition,  "One's 
aboard  with  the  Evil  Eye,"  in  surly  tones  that  made  me  shiver!  Could  they — 
could  they — could  anyone  really  think  that  I  brought  bad  luck?  My  mind  reeled 
as  we  rocked  so  violently  and  I  could  not  think  in  terms  of  nights  and  days.  I 
could  not  remember  that  my  Uncle  had  called  me  a  "good  sailor",  that  I  must 
not  brood  over  possibilities  or  be  afraid,  for  those  evil  looks  and  threatening 
words  created  chaos  in  me.  I  had  over  estimated  my  powers  of  endurance.  After 
all  there  was  little  of  the  heroic  in  me.  My  so-called  "sporting  nature"  was 
giving  way;  the  unexpected,  the  never  imagined,  the  personal  attacks  of  super- 
stition got  on  my  nerves.  Something  happened  to  my  sight — I  could  not  see  the 
decks — I  could  not  see  the  men  themselves — but  the  last  words  of  the  Steersman, 
who  had  given  up  the  wheel,  rang  for  a  long  time  in  my  ears — "A  man  may  expect 
anything  that  carries  his  women  to  sea." 

As  I  descended  and  held  by  rails  and  the  companionway  doors  and  tables 
and  whatever  was  solid,  on  entering  the  Cabin  I  waylaid  my  Uncle  to  ask  humbly 
the  meaning  of  erratic  uncertain  winds,  and  of  the  fog  that  still  lay  like  a  blanket? 
It  was  stagnation  to  make  no  progress,  with  no  visibility  in  the  furious  thickness; 
always  running  dead  against  the  wind  or  wind  seemingly  dead  against  us;  motion- 
less— with  scarcely  any  sail — it  tore  at  my  courage — I  looked  appealingly — "We 
seem  not  to  move,  Uncle  William,  forever  flapping  about  with  squalls  in  the  offing." 
"Nautically  correct!"  he  answered — amused  at  my  language — and  "Oh,  Uncle 
William,"  I  added,  "the  sailors  say  such  dreadful  things." 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


"My  ship  is  under  control,"  he  replied  gravely,  "and  my  niece  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  sailors;" — seeing  the  hurt  expression  I  was  trying  to  hide  he  con- 
tinued gently,  "The  storm  is  driving  to  leeward — The  fog  is  lifting — We  are 
coming  over  to  even  keel." 

The  Cabin  lamps  suddenly  winked  like  beacons.  The  word  had  been  spoken, 
and  whether  hard  to  see  a  few  yards  ahead  or  not  we  were  moving  toward  the 
prayed-for  Port.  It  was  only  the  illusion  of  quiescence.  The  Captain's  instinct 
and  experience  gave  him  full  understanding,  and  I  realized  that  I  too  must  believe 
trouble  temporary — like  a  nebulous  shadow  soon  to  be  dispelled. 

Shortly  after  that,  a  tearing  rain-squall  roared  down,  the  waves  driving  in 
long  diagonal  ranks.  The  ship  seemed  to  leap — climbing,  rearing  herself,  sinking 
to  unbelievable  depths,  rising  to  insecure  heights,  shaking  tons  of  water  from  her 
decks  as  if  conscious  of  the  battle  and  reveling  in  it — and  steadily,  surely  plunging 
due  West. 

WTater  ran  in  streams  from  the  Captain's  clothing,  when  he  had  discarded 
his  dripping  Slickers  to  join  us  for  a  moment.  And  then  the  regular  call — "Ho! 
there  Steward!  a  cup  of  coffee!"  which  was  speedily  offered  and  invariably  divided 
between  cup  and  saucer! 

In  our  Cabins  we  had  to  minimize  the  risk  of  breaking  arms  and  legs,  but  the 
Sea  Fighter  walked  with  ease  even  when  night,  with  its  blackness  woven  of  dread- 
ful clouds,  made  all  movements  dangerous  for  us. 

In  his  own  Cabin  the  Captain  may  be  a  fallible  human  being,  the  prey  even  of 
hopes  and  fears,  but  at  the  head  of  the  table,  in  the  Saloon,  in  storm  or  shine, 
he  is  Master  of  the  Ship; — a  creature  rarely  to  be  spoken  to — someway  in  a  sense 
dehumanized  and  lonely. 

Seafaring  at  close  quarters  makes  some  sailors  communicative,  the  asperities 
and  angles  of  others  it  never  seems  to  rub  off.  But  that  lonely  Arbiter,  unques- 
tioned Ruler  of  the  Ship  and  our  destinies,  had  to  settle  all  questions,  all  opinions, 
all  differences,  all  enmities,  and  knew  the  virtue  of  aloofness,  of  coldness,  of  dis- 
tance and  of  silence.  He  never  exaggerated  in  private  the  formalities  of  his  po- 
sition, but  the  maintenance  of  that  relation  had  become  second  nature  to  him. 
He  was  the  true  Sea  Fighter. 

Often  over  the  hollow  warning  and  clanging  of  the  Horn  at  the  bows  like  a 
brazen  gong,  or  like  a  wail  muffled  and  distant,  I  shuddered  inwardly.  In  a  kind 
of  terror,  remembering  the  sailors  words,  I  wondered  how  the  presence  of  women 
could  endanger  any  more  than  they  could  make  difference  in  the  handling  or 
discipline  of  the  ship? 

And  that  very  night  out  of  the  wind's  fury  and  breaker's  crash,  after  what 
seemed  seasons  of  oblivion,  in  a  rush  of  rain  and  howling  wind,  I  fell  asleep  to 
awake  to  sunshine  and  the  wonder  of  clear  weather. 

The  noises  of  the  ship  had  become  like  some  rhythmic  lullaby,  no  more  bleak 
or  chilling  airs,  no  more  indescribable  whisperings  of  mysterious  dangers,  no  more 
ominous  cries  of  the  churning  sea,  no  more  breakers  coming  like  wild  horses  toss- 
ing white  manes  against  the  fierce  darkness  of  sky,  no  rush  of  mighty  waves  like 
perpendicular  walls — instead  a  blessed  respite  to  find  all  movement  easy,  the  use 
of  feet  and  legs  free  and  natural,  and  the  glow  of  the  Sun  over  all — the  sunshine 
which,  God  be  thanked,  had  not  been  blotted  out  forever.  And  so  came  the  time 
when  the  immense  placidity  of  the  sea,  on  which  at  last  that  sun  lay  in  thick 
unwavering  light,  let  us  under  full  sail  speed  over  the  vast  desert  of  water  and 
dare  to  count  the  voyage  nearly  over.  And  again  and  again  in  its  intricate  in- 
escapable enormous  beauty,  extraordinary,  harmonious,  mysterious  the  Ocean 
gripped  and  held.  Its  complex  calls  in  countless  shades  of  sound;  voices  near, 
voices  far,  singing,  Bhouting,  murmuring;  became  steadily,  audibly  magical.  Its 
vast  power,  its  unnatural  brilliancy  caught  at  my  breath.  Its  sheer  loveliness 
laid  its  hold  upon  me. 

One  greal  event  of  that  period  when  I  was  saved  from  breaking,  bat tcring, 
terrible  disaster,  stands  out  sharply.  Coming  down  from  the  upper  deck,  "  Hear 
away  on  your  course  helmsman      bring  the  wind  to  beam,"  meant  little  or  nothing 


I 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


as  we  flung  around  gaining  speed,  and  picking  my  way  casually  by  the  lee-rail 
I  stepped  idly  upon  a  great  coil  of  rope.  My  feet  rested  for  that  moment  on  the 
coil  of  the  Main-sheet — "Ready  about — Hard-a-lee — Hold" — the  latter  in  sharp 
accents  tinged  with  a  horror  I  had  no  understanding  of — The  great  rope  called 
Main-sheet  was  ready  to  uncoil  and  rush  aloft,  but  men  seemed  to  shriek  and 
spring  as  the  ship  coming  about  brought  confusion  and  struggle.  The  great  sails 
sprang  from  their  holdings.  The  ropes  squeaked  like  live  snakes  as  they  slipped 
back  through  the  blocks,  and  those  aloft  swooped  down  the  back-stays,  and  the 
signal  bell  rang  in  violent  jerks,  the  slapping  for'sail,  the  sudden  veering  and 
changing  or  tacking  at  the  behest  of  the  Officer,  the  reflex  power  of  the  sailors' 
resentment,  and  the  common  instinct  of  danger  all  combined  to  communicate 
itself  in  part. 

That  great  rope  like  a  live  snake  from  its  coil  would  have  wrapped,  strangled 
and  carried  me  aloft,  flung  me  headlong  maimed  or  mangled  against  the  masts 
and  yard-arms,  but  for  that  one  saving  cry  "i/o/i" — and  it  had  made  a  snapping 
like  whips  of  the  spars  and  rigging.  Something  had  shivered  and  broke.  It  was 
like  whipping  fragments  all  about  us.  |The  main-sail,  the  royals,  top-gallents, 
jib-sheet,  sky-sails,  stay-sails  all  sounded  fluttering  up  between  and  against  the 
lofty  masts.  Sails  ripped  loose  by  the  wind,  shivering,  shredded,  flapping  infuriat- 
ing in  noise  and  disturbance.  Noises  louder  than  the  storm;  a  confusion  of  noises, 
clanging  after  each  other;  only  slack  canvas  could  make  a  noise  like  that,  with 
the  sudden  scurry  of  footsteps  and  voices.  I  had  stepped  down  quietly  from  my 
horrible  danger-post  eyes  and  ears  simply  amazed,  for  I  could  never  separate 
or  comprehend  their  intricate  handling,  and  now  "Hard  down  the  helm — Lively 
men — Lively"  was  all  I  heard. 

Like  a  snap-shot  as  I  write  repeats  itself  the  decisive  fraction  of  that  second 
when  Mr.  White  looked  back  pale  and  rigid  on  the  rack  of  horrible  fear.  I  had 
been  startled,  but  did  not  comprehend  from  what  his  swift  countermanding  of 
first  orders,  and  that  tight  hold  of  the  coil,  instead  of  loosening  and  releasing  it, 
had  saved  me.  I  could  not  vision  the  wrapping  crushing  winding  grip  of  that 
unrolling  rope,  the  awful  physical  risk,  the  mangling  and  mutilation — it  could 
not  picture  itself  to  me— it  seemed  only  that  something  had  ripped  loose,  but 
when  I  saw  apprehension  and  rage  chase  each  other  across  the  bo'sun's  face  as  I 
calmly  passed  on — when  I  beheld  the  looks  of  incredulity  and  alarm  the  scene 
spoke — the  moment  imprinted  itself  on  unfailing  memory.  It  was  strangely  with 
blurred  vision  that  I  suddenly  felt  as  if  in  some  cold,  deadly  swirl,  and  again  knew 
fear;  the  fear  of  battling  with  death  that  had  so  haunted  me  since  the  tornado  had 
pictured  it  in  frenzy.  Death  is  such  an  impalpable  figure  of  shadow,  yet  relentless 
— ruthless — symbolic  and  icy-cold. 

"Oh  Kate!"  as  I  sank  down  almost  voiceless  and  full  of  misgivings,  "I  am 
always  getting  into  trouble — I  don't  think  I  know  how  to  keep  out  of  harm's 
way."  "I  should  think  not,"  was  the  characteristic  quick  retort,  "you  choose  to 
get  in  it,  I  should  say,"  and  for  the  moment  something  prevented  her  questioning 
me  further,  and  I  was  too  excited  and  unwilling  to  give  details. 

It  was  an  hour  later  that  emerging  from  the  Cabin  I  saw  the  Captain  seated 
in  the  Saloon,  the  Mate  standing  before  him,  and  something  in  the  former's  stern 
and  the  latter's  worried  look  conveyed  the  idea  that  an  explanation  was  being 
demanded,  and  that  it  was  an  ordeal  for  the  Mate.  Unqualified  displeasure  I 
sensed  at  once  and  that  discipline  was  imminent.  Instinctively  drawing  near 
I  caught  a  sentence  that  cleared  the  situation.  The  danger  of  my  Uncle's  wrathful 
judgment  ousted  fear  for  myself;  a  partial  and  stammering  explanation  ensued, 
and  it  called  a  sudden  halt  to  further  words  between  them. 

With  a  curious  rugged  loyalty  that  is  inborn  in  the  bravest  Mr.  White  was 
shielding  me;  giving  no  real  or  adequate  reason  for  the  state  of  things  resulting 
from  what  had  appeared  as  lack  of  seamanship,  lack  of  proper  attention  to  orders, 
or  unpardonable  carelessness  in  maintaining  usual  and  regular  discipline.  Before 
reproof  could  be  administered  my  straining  ears  had  unravelled  the  puzzle — 
like  a  flash  it  all  cleared — I  realized  that  the  Second  Mate's  quick  reversal  of 

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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


action  had  saved  me  from  some  battering  disaster,  and  that  my  excited  half- 
coherent  interruption  had  silenced  both  Master  and  Mate.  I — I  alone  had  been 
the  cause  of  all  that  entangling  turmoil  and  disturbance.  Thoughts  almost  ousted 
words,  thoughts  fearful,  terrifying  as  I  partially  visualized  what  I  had  escaped. 

My  Uncle  grew  rigidly  pale — his  whole  countenance  altered — without  a  word 
he  held  out  his  hand  to  the  embarrassed  Officer,  and  at  his  hurried  departure 
looked  long  at  me  in  mingled  reproof  and  affection.  I  saw  the  one — I  felt  the 
other — and  something  struggled  in  his  voice,  some  horror  that  moved  me  more 
than  the  words,  "God  in  Heaven!  you  ought  to  know  how  to  avoid  danger  instead 
of  courting  it;  White  has  saved  your  life — He  has  saved  your  life — How  can  we 
ever  pay  the  debt?" 

I  was  not  calm  enough  to  answer;  I  could  only  look  pitifully — and  rush  from 
his  sight. 

And  soon  after  I  met  my  Aunt's  reproachful  glance,  and  my  own  tears  fell 
like  rain  over  my  Aunt's  account  of  what  occurred  when  my  Uncle  strode  into 
their  Cabin.  "You  have  upset  your  Uncle  dreadfully.  I  never  saw  him  so  excited; 
'God!  what  an  escape!'  He  kept  repeating  it  and  I  heard  exclamations — 'Killed 
on  my  ship — My  God!  such  a  death!  Orrington — Cornelia — What  could  we  do? 
Escaped  by  the  fraction  of  a  second!  Thank  God  for  White!'  He  said  Mr.  White's 
swiftness  of  action  was  wonderful,  that  he  possessed  every  physical  attribute, 
including  courage,  that  goes  to  make  a  fine  seaman.  He  said  he  had  the  head  to 
command,  and  that  if  he  made  another  voyage  White  should  be  Chief  Officer. 
William  was  so  shaken — I  just  cried  when  I  heard  your  Mother's  name,  and 
William  thanking  God  for  White!    How  could  you  be  so  reckless?" 

In  swift  moments  of  stress  or  danger  defenses  between  human  beings  are  flung 
down.  We  are  robbed  of  all  make-believes.  Any  terrific  realizations  leave  no 
subterfuges  of  word  or  look.  "God!  what  an  escape!"  I  stood  appalled — at  the 
echo  of  those  words  I  seemed  looking  into  black  menacing  awfulness,  as  if  caught 
and  submerged  into  the  deadly  dreadful  swirl  of  the  whole  Ocean — "Father — 
and  Mother" — -I  whispered  in  shaking  terror.  Then  indeed  I  knew  Death  had 
come  close — and  passed  me  by. 

One  evening  the  breeze  had  fallen  light — "Bear  away  on  your  course  helmsman, 
bring  the  wind  to  beam"  rang  out  in  the  Second  Mate's  voice,  and  staysail  after 
staysail  fluttering  up  the  stays  between  the  lofty  masts,  we  flung  around  gaining 
speed.  As  he  gave  up  his  watch  to  Mr.  Patten  I  signified  openly  my  desire  for  a 
talk.  I  did  not  thank  him,  his  shyness  was  too  apparent,  but  I  told  him  my  Uncle 
had  said  that  he  had  every  quality  of  a  first-class  seaman  and  that  he  ought  to 
attain  command  of  a  ship.  His  flushed  face  became  actually  radiant  and  soon 
his  tongue  was  unloosed.  "Of  all  Sea  Captains  that  I  ever  met  your  Uncle  is  the 
finest — he's  a  perfect  gentleman  and  a  splendid  seaman.  If  I  ever  thought  I  could 
be  like  him  I'd  work  like  a  slave."  Always  Mr.  White  rang  true  like  a  clear  bell 
and  not  the  least  of  the  qualities  I  admired  was  his  loyalty  to  the  Captain. 

His  mind  and  heart  had  opened  at  last.  He  spoke  of  ships  and  the  sea,  and 
of  those  dreadful  early  times  when  he  first  sailed  before  the  mast;  of  storms  in 
the  Indian  Ocean,  of  fights  between  the  Port  and  Starboard  Watches,"  and  of 
Islands  and  Mountains  that  seemed  to  rise  like  smoke  from  the  waters.  "It  is 
very  hard  to  stop  talking,"  he  said  suddenly,  "when  you  are  talking  of  the  sea." 

"Tell  me  more,"  I  said — I  had  glimpses  of  ships  sailing  in  and  out;  almost 
of  the  smell  of  spices  and  of  more  than  the  commonplaces  of  a  voyage — for  this 
man  had  felt  the  Sun  of  the  Line,  had  journeyed  in  the  South  Seas,  and  he  brought 
pictures  as  I  listened;  I  have  only  to  close  my  eyes  to  see  again.  I  Eteemed  to  be 
sailing  with  him,  sailing  out  and  out  in  strange  company. 

To  him,  now,  what  did  it  matter  what  was  on  land  once  it  lay  astern?  And 
by  the  rail,  his  face  turned  towards  the  sails,  the  Speaker  stood  like  some  God  of 
the  Winds.  The  wind  was  veering  and  we  were  plunging  on,  while  it  began  to 
have  almost  a  pleasant  somnolent  sound  as  he  told  me  how  in  early  times  in 
New  England  the  men  were  always  setting  forth  for  tin-  Seven  Seas,  the  farthest 
bee  of  earth  and  ocean      how  everyone  had  sea-faring  Ancestors,  and  all  the 


Pa      ,.n 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


boys  dreamed  of  taking  their  own  ship  around  the  world,  no  one  desiring  any 
other  career — all  eager  to  start  at  any  age  to  seek  and  see  the  Kingdoms  of  Cathay. 
He  had  run  away  from  the  home  farm,  and  had  begun,  ignorant  of  suffering,  at 
the  lowest  rung  of  the  hard  ladder.  He  had  borne  hardships  and  abuse,  and 
having  no  influence  in  Shipping  Circles  there  had  seemed  no  chance  for  a  fine 
berth.  "  I  could  only  hope  to  be  a  petty  Officer  all  my  days — I  persisted, — I  en- 
dured— I  secured  text-books — I  studied  Navigation  secretly,  the  Navigating  In- 
struments— Sextants — Chronometers — and  I  worked  with  one  view,  in  Port  or 
on  the  vessel — to  succeed — but  until  now  in  my  Superior's  eyes  I  never  heard  that 
I  was  thought  fitted  for  great  responsibilities.  There  is  no  kindness  in  a  life  at 
sea.  On  this  ship  I  have  known  it  for  the  first  time."  I  realized  as  I  listened  that 
he  had  a  man's  heart  and  a  man's  courage,  and  the  head  of  a  thinker.  He  had 
been  so  quiet  before,  so  ready  to  help  me  and  never  took  offense  at  my  ignoring 
or  indifference.     And  he  had  saved  my  life — "How  could  we  ever  -pay  the  debt?'" 

Something  trembled  in  my  voice  I  know,  and  I  tried  to  indicate  friendship 
and  feeling  as  I  talked.  I  told  him  that  I  was  the  niece  of  two  Captains,  that 
the  oldest,  Captain  Horace  Gray,  was  a  Master  Mariner,  bluff,  hearty,  brusque, 
yet  genial  and  capable  of  adaptation  in  any  circle;  a  man  of  repute  in  social  as 
well  as  marine  circles;  that  he  had  long  commanded  one  of  the  largest  ships  afloat, 
that  he  was  well  known  and  highly  regarded,  and  that  his  great  vessel  had  the 
reputation  of  being  a  picture  of  clean  efficiency.  I  wanted  to  seem  confidential, 
I  wanted  to  make  him  feel  welcome  and  acquainted  with  us  all. 

He  listened,  but  only  reiterated  "Captain  William  Gray  is  my  ideal,  I  care 
for  no  one  else;  no  one  could  surpass  him  in  skill  and  competence  and  justice." 
Mr.  White's  own  cleverness  and  capacity,  his  discretion,  management,  judgment 
and  self-control  impressed  us  from  that  time  on.  We  knew  that  he  could  be  trusted 
in  any  emergency,  that  he  was  proficient  as  well  as  popular.  And  I  am  glad  to 
record  here  with  pride  and  satisfaction  that  my  Uncle's  influence  finally  secured 
him  a  ship,  and  that  as  Captain  White  he  became  noted  and  highly  regarded  in 
the  Marine  service. 

We  were  speeding  along  rhythmically.  Weather  in  late  October  with  no  under- 
currents and  no  more  threats.  And  sometimes  in  that  curious  suspension  of  life 
at  sea  it  had  been  almost  easy  to  believe  that  time  was  standing  still.  Dolphins, 
schools  of  creatures  gamboling  about  the  ship,  playing  the  waves,  and  for  days 
in  succession  our  eyes  opened  on  the  same  halcyon  blue  mirroring  the  sky  in  the 
sea. 

And  it  was  a  lovely  night,  the  night  that  was  to  be  our  last  on  shipboard, 
when  Mr.  Patten  drew  near  at  last,  with  a  word  of  greeting  after  his  long  period 
of  sullenness,  and  that  awful  season  of  storms  of  which  some  way  he  would  always 
be  personally  remindful.  He  came  and  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment,  all  those 
three  weeks  of  steady  gales  and  silence  between  us.  There  had  been  no  inter- 
changes, his  ignoring  of  look  or  word  had  been  complete  and  effective,  with  no 
single  suggestion  of  what  I  had  thought  ended.  Now,  when  he  took  up  the  sub- 
ject where  it  had  been  so  sharply  broken  off,  it  came  as  an  overwhelming  surprise. 

"I  shall  have  my  own  ship  soon — and  everyone  will  look  up  to  me.  I  am 
certain  that  as  Mate  in  any  vessel  this  will  be  my  last  voyage.  I  have  laid  by  a 
tidy  little  sum — Couldn't  you  give  me  a  chance?" 

I  raised  my  head  to  hear  again  his  repeated  arguments,  the  assurance  of  his 
ability  to  get  the  big  ship,  which  apparently  seemed  all  that  was  wanting,  and  I 
realized  that  his  hope  and  interest  was  primarily  that  of  the  Skipper,  ignoring  all 
difficulties,  certain  of  conquering  opposition,  and  of  grasping  what  he  wanted. 

My  own  triumph  of  settlement  was  shattered  at  the  warmth  and  urgency 
of  his  renewed  appeal.  There  was  a  tone  of  rushing  emotion  that  sounded  pathetic, 
and  made  me  feel  a  great  pity  and  sharpened  self-reproach.  The  situation  was 
beyond  me.  I  had  neither  enough  coolness  nor  dignity  to  cope  with  it  properly. 
I  believed  in  his  sincerity  and  stability.  I  believed  him,  and  offered  renewals 
of  friendship  and  was  touchingly  sympathetic — little  fool — I  need  not  have  suf- 
fered vicariously.     His  fancy  for  me  had  neither  depth  nor  reality — nothing  in 


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it.  It  was  only  an  attitude  of  mind,  and  I — not  he — was  the  object,  inconceivable 
as  it  then  seemed,  for  the  shafts  of  ridicule,  in  supposing  that  such  an  experience 
would  hurt  him  or  affect  his  future  course  in  the  slightest  degree. 

The  very  next  year  he  got  his  ship,  married  a  pretty  girl  from  his  native  state 
of  Maine,  and  they  went  down  together  on  his  first  trip  as  Captain.  It  was  a 
great  gale  we  heard  which  must  have  found  him  unprepared.  "His  confidence 
was  mere  recklessness",  said  my  Uncle  long  after,  "He  had  not  the  qualities  of 
the  Commander,  he  defied  instead  of  fighting  the  elements."  And  I  shuddered 
and  almost  felt  the  ship  going  down  without  stopping  or  diminishing  speed — only 
driving  fiercely  onward — no  Sea  Fighter  walking  on  that  upper  deck — no  Watcher 
at  the  Helm  to  hold  him  back  from  destruction — and  his  last  words  to  me — "If 
the  sea  does  look  rough  ahead  as  you've  found  out;  if  you  and  I  only  pulled  to- 
gether we'd  never  come  to  grief."  And  the  sea  had  opened  and  swallowed  all 
on  board — "Gone  with  all  hands,"  was  the  only  word  we  ever  heard,  and  memory 
added  the  last  touch  of  horror  to  that  whole  business.  I  used  to  be  haunted  when 
the  Lake  roared,  and  in  the  night  hours  when  the  winds  and  waves  were  making 
havoc  against  the  Breakwater,  and  in  fancy  I  looked  everywhere,  North,  South, 
East  and  West,  only  to  see  that  boiling  ocean  engulfing  them. 

I  am  not  looking  at  anything  at  hand  now  but  far  off  in  my  memory  to  those 
last  hours  at  sea.  The  delicate  clouds  changing  from  rose  and  lilac  as  evening 
drew  near,  to  violet,  to  purple  edged  with  gold;  and  Oh!  the  lovely  waning  moon, 
the  feel  of  fresh  cool  wind,  the  delight  of  its  touch  on  brow  and  cheek,  the  stars 
above,  the  reflected  stars  below,  and  a  faint  yellow  line  of  light  westward.  I 
looked  up  to  the  masts  that  seemed  to  stab  upward  at  the  stars  and  my  heart 
sang  its  paen  of  praise.  The  dip  of  the  boat  with  every  heart-beat  made  a  sudden 
crawling  up  of  eager  waters,  falling  back  and  greeting  us  from  the  distant  Coast. 
There  were  no  men  now  shaking  clenched  fists  to  Heaven,  and  flinging  ribald 
challenges.  Evidently  no  youth  or  man  can  go  before  the  Mast  without  hearing 
and  assimilating  a  fine  stock  of  profanity.  And  clever  sailors  invented  new  oaths 
seemingly,  and  some  of  those  imperiled  moments  at  sea  had  given  me  an  enlarged 
knowledge  of  what  words  meant!  Now  all  was  peace  and  from  mouth  to  mouth 
one  caught  only  the  hopeful  cry,  "With  the  Pilot  we  shall  make  it  tomorrow," 
and  I  heard  only  the  murmur  of  running  seas  along  the  hull,  saw  only  clouds  go 
by  in  flocks  heralding  the  light  that  was  to  spring  from  the  horizon's  edge  above 
the  clouds,  above  the  yard-arms  of  the  fore-mast,  and  tomorrow  spread  its  reach 
of  radiance. 

I  had  not  dreamed  there  could  return  the  whole  Etherial  fabric  of  the  sea's 
glamour  and  romance,  that  all  its  storm  clouds  or  fan-like  shadows  could  melt 
again  into  unearthly  gold.  Holding  fast  to  the  rails  happy  tears  blurred  for  many 
moments  as  something  from  waves  as  well  as  winds  swept  over  me.  Even  in  my 
joy  at  leaving  it  seemed  wonderful  that  the  solitude  of  the  open  sea  should  still 
appeal.  And  in  my  glad  good-bye  to  Ocean  the  ungovernable  effects  which  uplitt 
or  incapacitate,  excite  or  depress,  I  then  felt  I  could  never  escape. 

Oh!  the  crystal  sunlight  of  that  last  morning,  lilac  and  silver  and  pearl  cool 
as  spray,  when  there  broke  into  my  slumber-"  We're  taking  up  the  Pilot,  Captain," 
and  I  could  hear  from  my  Cabin  the  exclamations  of  welcome  as  the  little  craft 
steered  close  and  the  Pilot  disdaining  help  caught  the  boarding  ladder.  And  al- 
though I  was  told  he  clung  a  second  with  feet  in  water  he  swung  himself  swiftly 
upward,  and  on  the  deck  the  Captain  with  a  sigh  of  relief  resigned  command. 
When  he  joined  us  later  the  most  casual  observer  would  note  the  vast  difference. 
The  terrible  load  had  rolled  off  and  he  breathed  freely. 

Never  can  I  forget  the  dazzling  brightness  of  that  sunrise  with  the  ship  driving 
Straight  into  the  dawn,  the  soft  winds  lifting  the  foam  and  dashing  it  like  showers 
of  spring  rain.  The  spray  beat  againsl  the  port-holes  and  sprinkled  the  airy 
squadrons  of  white  birds  that  accompanied  us;  the  sea-gulls  soaring  rind  diving, 
thai    with    invisible    turns   and    tangles   swooped    from    the   blue,    lestooning   their 

flights  in  figures  that  eyes  followed  in  vain.    Ocean  birds,  always  graceful,  darting 

and    plunging     stormy     Petrels    wheeling    about    us    in    perpetual    motion.     The 


Pagt  i  yi 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


little  land  birds  coming  to  greet  us,  and  schools  of  Porpoise  along  the  surface  jump- 
ing and  rising  in  curves.  Everything  gliding  and  playing — joy  in  life — the  ex- 
ultation of  being  alive.  It  gave  again  a  sense  of  unity  with  winds  and  waves, 
with  the  great  f,ree  element  of  life  which  means  exhilaration. 

It  was  a  world  of  happy  thoughts  and  feeling  pursued  by  ideas  and  futile 
imaginings,  but  full  of  hope  and  shining  with  promise.  That  October  sunshine 
going  through  and  through  one  comfortingly, thankfulness  had  taken  hold  of  me, 
the  beloved  ones  were  near — arms  extended — voices — hands — smiles  and  em- 
braces waiting — just  waiting — everything  creating  and  sustaining  the  illusion 
of  immutable  peace. 

A  fresh  breeze  rippled  in  that  early  dawn — we  were  making  sail  as  we  sped 
towards  land — snowy  sail  after  snowy  sail  billowing  and  stretching  from  our  yards 
and  stays  in  the  creeping  sunlight.  The  great  top-sails  were  mast-headed  with  a 
song,  and  they  were  setting  the  sky-sails  with  cheerful  home-bound  chanteys. 
It  certainly  marked  an  epoch  in  life  when  we  spread  tier  on  tier  of  beautiful  white 
wings  and  sped  through  the  sparkling  waters  toward  the  distant  harbour.  The 
singing,  pulsating  rhythm  of  the  sea  beneath,  the  sun  streaming  down,  the  spray 
flashing  back  from  the  bows  like  crystal  sunlight  as  we  rose  and  dipped  and 
plunged  rapidly  nearer.  The  ship,  the  far  shores,  the  coveted  anchorage  all  touched 
with  the  magic  of  the  morning. 

"Land  Ho!"  is  the  cry  forward.  My  eyes  look  and  look  and  find  only  a  pale 
outline  like  a  dim  cloud  close  down  along  the  water.  Slowly  it  begins  to  darken 
and  take  sharp  outline  against  the  sky — at  last  bands  of  green  cut  in  between 
blue  sky  and  deeper  blue  of  the  sea.  The  Land — The  Land — growing  stronger, 
lifting  higher,  appealing  as  an  Earthly  Paradise  to  the  eager-hearted  wanderer 
from  home.  All  the  land-marks  were  like  scenery  that  stacked  itself;  one  thing 
in  dim  distance  more  visible  to  their  sea  eyes  than  another,  only  to  shift  and  dip 
and  be  lost  below  the  horizon.  Under  plain  sight  now  the  land  ahead — and  the 
black  breath  of  the  Tug  making  its  smoky  feathers  rise  only  a  mile  away.  We 
are  greeted  with  its  whistle  as  it  sheers  over  to  us. 

On  that  blessed  morning  as  in  fulfilled  splendour  of  noon  we  neared  the  Docks 
and  there  was  sent  out  over  the  waters  the  Bells  of  Trinity.  They  seemed  to  rise 
and  fall  in  tune  with  the  heaving  smooth  slopes  of  waves  still  around  us.  The 
music  of  the  Call  to  Worship  from  the  land.  Church  Bells  that  rung  their  in- 
sistent warning  and  welcome — their  Call  to  Praise  and  Prayer.  Strange  that  we 
left  New  York  on  Sunday,  reaching  Havre  on  Sunday  after  twenty-one  days; 
Leaving  Havre  Sunday,  September  the  First — and  reaching  New  York,  Sunday 
October  Twentieth.  Four  Sacred  days  had  marked  departure  and  return — and 
now  the  Land — the  Blessed  Land — and  the  Bells  of  Trinity! 

As  to  those  who  come  off  a  moving  ship  after  fifty  days  on  a  heaving  sea,  so 
everything  seemed  to  sway  and  tilt.  At  last — at  last — that  song  of  the  sea  was 
outside  and  beyond  me.  Thank  God  my  feet  were  on  the  land,  the  blessed  land, 
so  blissfully  warm  and  solid. 

"My  Child! — My  Child!" — And  Father's  arms  were  about  me.  That  splendid 
hour  as  a  dream  when  he  gathered  me  close,  smiled  and  gave  thanks,  bewilders 
me  with  its  intense  joy  even  in  recollection. 

He  had  haunted  the  Docks — no  wireless  then  to  tell  them  the  hour  of  arrival. 
The  one  Steamer  we  had  spoken  to  brought,  to  owners  and  all  interested  parties, 
their  first  and  only  message  of  assurance.  The  telegrams  to  and  from  Chicago 
had  given  news  as  received,  and  called  the  family  to  New  York,  after  those  terrible 
weeks  of  waiting.  Yes,  they  had  feared  we  might  never  come  into  sight,  the  stories 
of  wrecks  were  so  general,  so  heart-breaking. 

But  my  Father  did  not  falter,  his  genuine  unquestioned  faith  sustained  them 
all,  his  consistent  sincere  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  prayer  had  triumphed.  When 
he  held  me  in  his  arms,  and  when  I  heard  how  they  had  suffered  those  last  twenty 
days,  his  assurance  and  wondrous  peace  seemed  to  surround  and  invade,  and 
make  me  long  for  that  same  crown  of  unshakable  belief.  Wherever  my  Father 
dwelt  or  laboured  he  never  felt  doubts — "The  Covenant  was  with  him  of  Life  and 


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Peace,"  and  to  the  very  end  of  that  noble  successful  and  honoured  life,  he  stood 
out  as  something  beautiful  and  wonderful — A  Rock  of  Strength. 

My  Mother,  my  Aunt  Margaret  with  my  cousins,  Joe  Evans  and  Sunie  Lowell, 
had  paused  on  their  way  to  the  Academy  at  Wilbraham,  Massachusetts,  and 
they  were  all  at  the  new  "Hotel  St.  Nicholas,"  waiting  to  welcome  me. 

I  looked  again  into  my  Mother's  face — I  trembled  violently  as  I  saw  that 
face.  A  pain  that  in  its  poignancy  was  physical  swept  over  me — and  I  fell  clasped 
to  my  Mother's  breast  in  a  paroxysm  of  uncontrolled  weeping.  My  overcharged 
heart  emptied  itself  of  doubts,  of  fears,  of  longings — rest  and  joy  stole  over  and 
possessed  me,  as  if  victorious  warfare  had  brought  answer  to  all  petitions  and 
prayers.  Oh  Mother! — Oh  Mother! — and  I  clung  and  clung,  enfolded  in  the 
warmest  of  all  home-nests — A  Mother's  arms.  My  Sanctuary  was  reached.  I 
quivered  in  every  limb  with  gratitude,  and  made  mute  supplication  to  be  better 
and  more  worthy. 

When,  later,  my  Uncle  found  us  together  he  was  no  longer  the  "Sea  Fighter". 
On  land  he  had  the  courteous  self-possession  of  a  man  of  the  World,  and  while 
about  him  there  was  always  a  sort  of  impenetrability  his  smile  was  genial,  and 
manner  as  warm  as  the  words  that  crowned  me  with  approval,  and  roused  a  throb 
of  almost  incredulous  delight  and  pride.  "We've  brought  her  back  to  you,  Cor- 
nelia.   And  we  called  her,  lThe  Sunshine  of  the  Ship'." 

THE    STEPPING    STONES 

It  seems  to  me  now  as  I  lookback  that  from  infancy  to  age  I  have  had  a  vitality 
that  vibrates  with  an  irrepressible  animation,  that  not  only  entered  into  my 
thoughts  but  extended  to  everything,  and  surrounded  all  persons  that  came 
near  me.  I  have,  at  least,  never  been  indifferent.  Life  has  been  always  worth 
while,  and  with  every  nerve  and  muscle  I  have  been  told  something  or  done  some- 
thing, for  how  else  was  it  of  value?  I  mean,  where  was  the  use  of  living  if  I  did 
not  care  mightily?  There  has  always  been  a  tremendous  ardor  of  living  which 
nothing  could  extinguish. 

In  the  protected  cherished  life  breathed  from  birth,  in  a  perhaps  over  priv- 
ileged, over  indulged  environment,  I  was  saved  from  arrogance  or  assumption, 
while  never  hesitating  to  grasp  the  pleasure  of  the  moment,  by  my  sense  of  the 
sincerity  and  actual  worth  of  those  who  had  brought  me  into  being.  What  one 
has  always  had  one  does  not  value  as  what  one  acquires  or  idealizes,  and  I  well 
remember  my  Mother's  words  and  warnings  that  people  who  make  a  fuss  about 
family  and  wealth  have  usually  very  little  else,  if  anything,  to  go  on.  Nothing 
could  ever  rob  her — my  Mother — or  lessen  her  unique  distinction,  in  appearance, 
in  bearing,  in  dress.  Her  individualism  of  style  was  as  artistic  as  distinctive. 
Her  features  and  colouring  were  beautifully  delicate,  and  her  feminine  charm 
obvious  to  all. 

Mother's  spirit  of  uncommon  sacrifice  never  touched  weakness.  She  pos- 
sessed powers  of  mind  and  judgment  that  settled  our  movements  and  definitely 
decided  many  puzzling  questions.  She  demonstrated  ability  and  firmness,  and 
surrounded  herself  with  unassailable  dignity.  Hers  was  a  gift  of  reticence.  It 
was  a  Gray  characteristic,  an  inheritance,  and  yet,  in  her  case,  softened  by  gentle- 
ness and  generosity  of  soul.  She  asked  no  questions  but  always  responded  to 
confidence.  She  made  us  feel  we  were  trusted  to  the  full.  There  is  a  vast  side 
to  human  relationships.  It  is  immeasurable,  sometimes  dynamic,  the  influence 
for  good  or  evil  that  permeates  home  and  class-rooms.  One  cannot  live  under  the 
same  roof  weeks  and  months,  or  years,  in  and  out,  and  not  have  varying  direction 
given  without  words,  to  our  thoughts  and  actions,  however  unconscious  we  may 
be  at   the  time  <>f  the  imprint  of  our  associations. 

BrOUghl  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  forms  and  prayer,  I  had  never  felt  their  need 
or  reality  until  I  was  tossed  to  and  fro  in  that  awful  crossing  ol  oeean.     And  when 

I  met  Father  on  landing  it  was  an  answering  passion  that  made  me  teel,  as  never 

fully  until  then,  the  assurance  of  a  Guiding  llaiul  that  lor  a  time  raised  in  nn 
Pagt  1 1 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


heart' a  new  Altar.  Before  it  when  I  gave  thanks  I  heard  things;  eternal  things 
that  became  present;  now  stronger,  now  fainter  in  thought  or  allegiance,  but  as  a 
part  of  the  air  one  breathes.  It  made  a  sort  of  obligation  while  it  challenged 
to  do  and  be  one's  best.  I  had  been  so  helpless  when  such  terrific  ominous  sounds 
had  seemed  the  triumphant  trumpet  of  the  destroyer.  Those  mighty  demoniac 
roars  had  made  life  seem  smothered  and  vanquished.  And  now  I  had  sensation 
and  understanding,  and  my  precious  ones  all  my  own. 

I  can  pick  myself  to  pieces  and  the  scenes  through  which  I  have  passed,  and 
see  what  resembles  truth  or  trash,  and  yet  continue  to  believe  myself  an  Immortal 
Soul!  And  I  still,  even  in  extreme  age,  sometimes  fight  awake  or  asleep  with  con- 
fused intense  impressions  of  that  and  later  periods;  but  my  moods  of  introspection 
rarely  produce  gloomy  results.  My  whole  outlook  and  experience  has  shown 
me  that  after  storms  come  calms;  after  storms  or  struggles  a  subtle  understand- 
ing; and  the  purple  horizon  of  night  seems  a  sort  of  parthway  strewn  with  jewels. 

The  moon-kissed  path  of  light  shimmers  softly  across  the  placid  surface  of 
my  Lake.  And  in  my  home  by  the  shore  it  is  like  the  spell  of  a  passionless  drowsy 
night — a  nebulous  shadow  on  the  horizon's  rim.  Each  day  we  make  paths  of 
motion — to  those  who  look  up,  who  fearless  see  the  cloud  already  darkening 
on  their  eyes,  knowing  that  the  designs  of  Mighty  Providence  are  worked  in  us," 
the  light  of  Life's  evening  shuts  out  visions  of  terror. 

The  vast  power  of  life,  its  magnificent  potential  splendour  is  for  the  young, 
for  those  to  whom  I  am  writing;  but  as  I  write  it  lays  again  its  hold  on  me.  It 
is  a  world  again  of  my  own  thoughts  and  feelings  pursued  by  ideas,  bright  promises 
and  futile  imaginings.  Life  is  such  a  joyous  affair.  It  is  the  consummation  to 
be  alive,  to  feel  the  eager  inquisitive  friendly  emotions  that  make  for  unity  with 
the  whole  human  race.  One  feels  like  a  traveler  in  some  exuberant  surroundings, 
as  if  he  had  accomplished  feats  and  was  of  supreme  importance;  loving  beauty, 
eyes  and  ears  are  ravished  with  gratified  senses.  The  whole  surprised  and  happy 
system  adjusting  itself  to  new  lessons  of  delight  or  illusion. 

Life  so  stretched  to  me,  replete,  happy,  for  the  hour  inimitable — for  the  time 
a  vividly  interesting  and  exciting  panorama.  I  never  knew  anything,  you  see, 
about  the  hardship  of  human  struggle,  or  the  sadness  of  history,  or  the  tragic 
happenings  on  all  sides,  but  I  began  to  have  intuitions  that  I  had  never  known 
before,  and  I  was  haunted  not  by  fears  but  by  desire  and  purpose. 

When  school  loomed  again  on  my  horizon  it  seemed  indeed  an  anti-climax. 
After  the  sea — after  Paris — I  could  not  like  the  idea  of  restraints  and  rules.  I 
suppose  there  is  no  girl  that  has  not  dreamed  secretly  of  escape  from  every-day 
demands  to  some  beautiful  Isle  far  away,  from  lessons,  meals,  bed-time,  and  all 
the  tedious  tribe  of  "grown-ups",  who  have  lost  all  memory  of  childhood  or  girl- 
hood and  rejoice  to  impose  trammels.  They  have  forgotten  all  fancies  of  "Perilous 
Seas  and  Fairylands",  of  waters  bluer  than  any  Lake  can  show,  of  Paradise  in- 
credibly remote  from  every-day  life,  and  fairer  far  than  any  concrete  aspects  of 
life  as  known.  The  average  girl's  heart-desire,  her  darling  secret  playground  is 
dear  and  mysterious  with  shadowy  dreams, — and  school? — school? — there  was 
no  taste  in  it  for  me.  It  seemed  impossible  that  I  had  left  Van  Norman's  only 
last  mid-year,  that  there  had  been  but  ten  months  between  that  sudden  break 
and  this  enforced  return.  Then  I  was  of  such  apparent  insignificance,  and  soon, 
either  because  of  reputation  as  a  traveler,  or  as  the  palpable  owner  of  fine  clothes,  I 
found  myself  relatively  popular,  at  least  the  centre  of  a  group.  The  family,  the 
teachers  were  the  same,  largely  the  scholars,  and  I  was  greeted  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  although  to  me,  everything  looked  and  felt  entirely  different. 

The  interval  had  been  crowded  with  eye-opening  experiences.  Those  happy 
months  at  home  after  Aunt  Elizabeth's  beautiful  wedding;  those  exciting  months 
at  sea;  those  disappointing  weeks  in  Paris.  My  wise  Mother  in  some  sense  measur- 
ing the  difference  and  distance,  had  arranged  for  special  privileges,  a  room  unshared, 
and  liberty  to  accept  invitations  from  acknowledged  friends.  This  she  had  ex- 
plained to  me  while  we  were  all  together,  before  Father  started  home  to  meet 
important  demands  and  business  engagements  connected  with   his  labour  and 


Pa[e  J4Q 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


love  for  Evanston.  His  interests  were  numerous  and  his  position  and  voluntary 
services  of  inestimable  value  to  various  causes;  and  lately,  from  its  incipiency, 
my  Father  had  devoted  himself,  his  money  and  his  time,  to  the  building  up  of  the 
University,  the  Institute,  and  the  town  for  whose  Site  he  was  responsible. 

"Well  indeed  was  he  called  "The  Father"  of  Evanston,  as  but  for  his  refusal 
to  give  his  vote  to  the  location  selected  which  was  far  removed  from  the  Lake  we 
love,  and  but  for  his  request  for  delaying  decision,  and  his  repeated  trips  to  find 
a  Site  along  its  shore,  "Northwestern"  would  never  have  had  its  incomparable 
situation  nor  would  Evanston  as  it  now  is  have  ever  existed. 

Before  he  left  us  we  had  great  joy  in  driving  and  sightseeing,  and  especially 
in  making  further  acquaintance  with  our  cousins  in  Brooklyn.  It  was  with  a 
kind  of  open  pride  and  eagerly  affectionate  recognition  that  they  greeted  their 
"Uncle  Orrington",  and  I  remember  my  Father's  gratified  smile  and  the  alacrity 
with  which  he  returned  their  embraces. 

My  Aunt  Sarah  Comings,  Father's  sister,  had  a  sort  of  distinguished  courtesy 
of  manner,  her  stately  figure  moved  with  vigorous  upright  grace.  She  was  a 
woman  destined  to  grace  a  home  as  well  as  manage  one,  and  the  aspects  of  her 
home-life  showed  cheerfulness  as  well  as  efficiency.  I  think  that  it  was  in  the 
home,  with  its  many  duties  and  responsibilities,  and  in  the  handling  of  their  chil- 
dren, that  women  of  that  generation  were  afforded  their  widest,  truest  and  happiest 
development.  The  measure  of  accomplishment  on  the  part  of  her  husband  one 
could  only  take  who  knew  something  of  his  special  talent,  or  professional  rank. 
Dr.  Comings  was  a  practicing  physician,  and  of  course  contributed  to  the  sum  of 
human  knowledge,  but  whether  his  was  an  avocation  which  grew  into  a  real  vo- 
cation I  do  not  know. 

The  physical  evidence  of  wear  and  tear  was  suggested  in  my  Aunt's  delicate 
health.  She  had  been  at  times  threatened  with  serious  invalidism.  She  had  a 
brood  of  children,  and  it  was  invigorating,  someway,  to  get  in  the  midst  of  a  large 
family  of  my  own  kindred;  and  the  climax  of  my  experience  was  in  the  careless 
confusion  of  their  home  life  and  its  limitless  or  liveliest  interchanges.  There  was 
nothing  strange  or  strained  about  it.     It  had  simplicity  and  sweetness. 

The  two  oldest  daughters,  Annie  and  Sadie,  endeared  themselves  at  once. 
My  cousin  Annie  was  like  her  refined  gentle  Mother  in  cast  of  countenance.  She 
was  blonde  and  of  the  distinctly  delicate  New  England  type.  Annie  must  have 
learned  early  to  judge  for  herself  and  think  for  herself.  She  was  plainly  a  great 
dependance  for  the  younger  ones  running  all  the  way  down  to  infancy.  She  showed 
no  rebellion  against  the  daily  grind  of  house  work,  and  there  was  no  revolt  apparent 
against  rather  restricted  existing  conditions.  She  seemed  essentially  domestic 
and  had  that  prominence  among  them;  but  always,  it  appeared,  thinking  for 
others  and  acting  in  instinctive  accord  with  the  family  circle.  I  thought  my  cousin 
Annie  lovely,  her  face  as  sweet  as  her  manner  was  charming,  and  her  methods 
for  calming  her  own  spirits  and  controlling  the  younger  ones  were  never  open  or 
aggressive.  She  made  a  strong  impression  upon  me,  and  long  after  I  thought 
it  must  be  a  technic  of  self  control  which  she  learned  early,  in  conditions  not  highly 
favourable  for  personal  indulgence,  while  there  were  so  many  little  ones  to  be 
cared  for.  She  was  about  four  years  my  senior,  and  seemed  then  an  adult  with 
a  maturity  hard  to  explain  and  which  must  have  been  in  a  measure  developed 
by  her  Mother's  ill-health,  and  her  own  unselfish  spirit. 

Sadie  was  of  my  years — with  an  obvious  sort  of  beauty — golden  brown  hair 
growing  low  on  brow  and  temples;  clear  cut  features,  all  of  them  bespeaking 
qualities  that  indicated  strength  of  purpose.  One  instinctively  felt  that  she 
could  not  be  daunted.  She  had  an  especially  beautiful  line  ot  eyebrow,  large 
hazel  eyes  glowingly  bright,  a  very  determined  mouth,  lips  a  bit  drawn  down  but  red 
and  well  formed,  and  beneath  her  pure  clear  skin  flowed  and  flamed  blood  thai 
COlouted  her  cheeks  at  the  least  excitement.  1  ler  little  figure,  soniewli.it  stout, 
as  I  remember  it,  looked  to  me  rather  graceful  and  finished.  She  was  important 
in  the  circle,  purposeful  and  entertaining.  1  liked  her  vivacity  and  sparkle  and  1 
faiM )    Bhe  invariably   had  her  way  in  most  contests,  or  differences,  big  or  little. 


Pa  \t  is" 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


but  she  was  as  attractive  as  she  was  determined,  and  friendship  was  cemented 
with  both  those  cousins,  and  taken  up  gladly  in  later  life  whenever  circumstances 
or  vicinity  permitted. 

There  was  a  peculiar  freshness  about  all  the  children.  They  were  all  so  friendly 
and  interested  and  showed  such  youthful  enthusiasm.  They  made  me  welcome 
as  a  surprising  sort  of  cousin  from  the  far  away  West.  We  are  all  human,  young 
and  old,  and  like  to  be  acceptable  to  each  other.  And  in  my  state  of  relative  in- 
nocence I  considered  and  glibly  called  myself  a  traveler.  The  atmosphere  was 
electric  and  I  felt  very  important  to  find  them  all  so  curious  and  alert  to  learn 
of  my  recent  experiences  in  Europe!  It  sounded  so  grand.  At  that  time  a  trip 
to  Europe  was  no  commonplace  event  for  a  young  American  from  the  West,  and 
everyone  hung  upon  my  words  and  accepted  my  descriptions  for  exultant  enjoy- 
ment. I  pointed  out  from  my  "Book  of  Views",  palaces,  galleries,  and  museums; 
churches,  bridges  and  gardens;  that  I  had  never  been  allowed  or  given  a  chance 
to  peep  into,  but  I  could  talk — and  I  raved  over  the  high  white  balconied  buildings, 
the  wide  open  spaces  of  Boulevards,  the  fringed  Avenue  of  the  Champs  Elysee, 
the  tall  monuments  and  playing  fountains,  wonderful  spires  and  towers  that  etched 
against  the  sky,  colonades  and  arches,  and  such  familiarity  with  far  away  wonders 
made  my  life  abroad  seem  to  my  cousins  a  more  magnificent  experience  than  they 
could  imagine. 

Those  who  are  the  most  self-sufficing  and  independent  draw  others  about  them, 
and  I,  who  did  not  possess  a  meek  inch  in  my  whole  system,  found  myself  sometimes 
confused  at  the  repeated  desire  manifested  to  hear  my  descriptions,  and  I  learned 
to  speak  very  casually  and  easily,  which  often  made  my  young  hearers  look  awe- 
struck. More  and  more  my  pride  was  concerned  to  keep  from  everyone's  knowledge 
the  fiasco  of  that  visit  to  Paris;  its  complete  un-success,  my  bitter  disappointment, 
and  personal  humiliation  over  unfulfilled  longings  and  relative  unhappiness  as 
a  guest. 

My  Mother  asked  no  questions,  she  made  no  comments  on  my  lack  of  new 
possessions  or  souvenirs.  I  have  since  realized  that  she  must  have  surmised 
a  great  deal,  but  she  could  not  have  dreamed  of  the  hurts  or  humiliations  I  suffered, 
yet  knowing  my  habits  and  tastes  she  felt  that  I  must  have  met  disappointments 
and  somehow  lacked  freedom  of  opportunity,  well  aware  that  given  a  fair  chance 
I  would  lavishly  have  spent  all  I  could  during  that  month  in  Paris.  She  smiled 
sometimes  when  I  evaded  queries  as  to  purchases,  possessions  or  souvenirs,  and 
came  to  my  assistance  in  the  matter  of  my  wardrobe,  declaring  that  my  practice 
of  economy  needed  the  encouragement  of  appreciation.  It  was  the  only  time  I 
ever  remember  being  praised  for  economy,  I  was  not  born  to  save.  My  Mother 
later  proceeded  to  shop  generously  for  my  advantage,  and  I  recall  several  pretty 
frocks  she  purchased  which  seemed  quite  impressively  grand  for  school;  but  I 
speedily  realized  the  wisdom  of  such  selections  and  additions,  as  life  at  the  Sims 
shortly  made  call  upon  a  wardrobe  far  beyond  any  style  I  had  ever  previously 
sported. 

My  Mother  remained  two  weeks  to  prolong  the  vacation  and  introduced 
new  pleasures.  And  we  had  a  memorable  trip  together  to  see  my  little  brothers 
who  were  in  Cazenovia  at  school. 

Impressions  obliterate  each  other  often  like  wave-marks  on  the  sand,  but 
the  yellow  light  of  that  Autumn,  misty  and  warm,  the  air  full  of  colour  and  sound, 
the  long  stretches  of  fields  and  pastures,  and  the  woods  and  hills  and  hollows  as 
we  reached  Cazenovia,  which  lay  like  a  gem  beside  its  little  lake,  appealed  to 
awakened  fancy  as  a  paradise  of  peace  and  sweetness. 

The  stretches  of  open  country  were  given  over  to  dewy  shadows  and  silences, 
sudden  visions,  sudden  ascents  and  descents  as  the  coach  rumbled  on.  There 
were  stage-coach  rides  from  the  end  of  the  railroad,  unforgettable  drives,  and 
I,  seated  beside  the  burly  driver,  holding  and  switching  his  long  whip  over  the 
four  horses  and  their  jangling  harness,  was  happy,  happier  than  I  had  ever  believed 
possible  a  few  weeks  before. 

The  carnival  colours  were  not  dead,  the  symphony  of  red  and  gold  and  green 


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made  a  pageant  to  intoxicate  vision;  shades  of  scarlet  rose  and  wine  were  only 
dimmed  a  little.  The  slight  frosts  had  painted  the  leaves  which  as  yet  no  chilling 
blasts  had  wholly  destroyed.  The  maple  branches  still  glowed  against  the  tangled 
arms  of  oak,  and  every  tone  of  pale  yellow  and  russet  red  still  splashed  their  fading 
tints.  The  remains  of  golden-rod  and  the  purple  of  asters  and  the  strange  richness 
of  low  hill-sides,  or  woods  or  pastures,  unrolled  green  and  flame-tipped.  It  was 
an  incomparable  mosaic.  Some  things  mist  and  blur  in  memory  and  have  the 
unreality  of  a  dream;  but  the  gold  of  those  birches,  the  fire  of  maples,  the  brown 
of  oaks,  and  the  background  of  evergreen  made  a  picture  that  thrilled  and  uplifted. 
It  was  a  background  of  colour  for  the  thankful  gladness  over  re-union  with  the 
boys ! 

The  delight  of  their  greeting  lives  with  me  yet,  and  my  elation  in  belief,  that 
my  brothers  were  handsomer  and  more  promising  than  all  others,  made  fresh 
enchantment  for  me.  That  visit  to  the  Head  Master,  Dr.  Andrews,  and  our  de- 
lightful days  with  Horace  and  George  made  for  complete  satisfaction,  crowned 
to  a  Mother  when  her  sons  were  praised — "They  are  fine  boys,  Mrs.  Lunt,  and 
are  doing  well,"  was  the  tribute  of  more  than  one  of  the  teachers.  Dr.  Andrews 
was  a  noted  Educator,  sympathetic,  skilled,  scholarly  and  stable;  like  Mr.  Abbott, 
one  to  whom  safely  could  be  entrusted  the  treasures  of  our  household.  My  brothers 
had  been  but  lately  transplanted  from  Little  Blue,  Farmington,  Main,  to  this 
more  pretentious  Academy  in  central  New  York.  Oh!  how  proud  they  were  to 
have  Mother  and  sister  for  guests,  and  life  shimmered  in  a  golden  haze. 

We  were  as  joyous  as  the  birds,  as  the  leaves  or  the  flowers  that  swayed  gently 
in  those  mild  soft  airs.  We  had  several  excursions  and  were  shown  many  lovely 
hidden  places  in  that  region  of  bloom  and  beauty.  There  was  a  happy  picnic 
the  last  afternoon,  and  I  can  see  now  the  smiling  faces  of  those  boys  that  Mother 
included  in  her  plans  of  entertainment,  and  how  they  all  waved  to  us  and  stood 
in  groups  as  we  drove  away. 

I  am  caught  back  in  the  old  charm.  I  am  once  more  a  girl  seeking  adventure. 
The  Maternal  instinct  with  its  Eternal  vigilance  had  given  her  children  those 
days  together.  How  close  is  a  Mother  to  the  heart  of  humanity — the  Heart 
of  God. 

As  the  weeks  sped  by  I  felt  less  and  less  interest  in  that  almost  absurd  sentence 
of  school  life.  My  parents  at  repeated  representations  had  consented  to  the  re- 
quest and  invitations,  the  generous  considerations  and  attentions,  of  my  special 
chum's  family,  and  arranged,  with  the  suave  unctuous  pretentious  and  snobbish 
principal,  to  let  me  off  for  week  ends,  and  freedom  and  bright  promises  gave  social 
privileges  that  henceforth  shone  on  my  horizon. 

My  room  was  adjoining  Carrie  Sims,  I  had  found  her  as  winning,  alert, 
imperious  and  enthusiastic  over  herself  and  her  chances  for  pleasure  and  triumph, 
as  before.  She  was,  in  a  way,  more  captivating;  in  ways  and  words  quite  regal 
because  naturally  autocratic.  Unaccustomed  to  be  thwarted  she  had  become 
more  or  less  of  an  obtuse  little  despot,  self-willed,  self-deluded,  self-assertive  and 
withal  too  charming  to  oppose.  She  talked  often  in  phrases  decidedly  assumptive, 
without  realizing  their  meaning  or  their  self-revelation.  She  was  distinctly  a 
pleasure  lover;  bright,  defiant,  independent,  and  allowed  her  own  way  one  could 
hardly  expect  from  her  special  consideration,  sympathy  or  unselfishness.  She  was 
made  to  rule,  which,  as  the  wife  of  an  English  Diplomat,  she  did  afterward  in 
several  Courts  of  Europe.  Carrie's  eyes  were  shaped  for  laughter,  deep  hazel 
eyes  with  dancing  motes  of  gold  under  thick  brown  lashes.  Slim,  straight  and 
sparkling  there  was  something  subtle  in  her  physical  charm,  and  I  always  admired 
her  assurance  as  a  girl,  which  panopled  her  right  royally  in  after  years,  gave  her 
control  ofthosc  about  her,  that  now, even  in  her  immaturity,  bent  people  to  her  will. 

"Glad  you're  back  in  this  old  hole;  1  won't  be  here  after  Master,"  was  her 
characteristic  greeting.  "Papa's  Women's  Hospital  is  absorbing  him  all  his 
time  now,  hut  lie  takes  us  to  lots  of  money-making  functions,"  and  in  the  warmth 
of  her  Southern  nature  she  continued  hospitably — "Come  home  tor  next  week- 
end and  you  can  go  to  'Old  Gal  AstorY  with  us." 


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"Oh!  Carrie,  that  sounds  awful!"  "Oh  well!  I  got  it  from  sister  Mary,  she's 
in  deep  with  all  those  stiff  old  stuck-ups;  but  they've  no  idea  how  she  can  mimic 
them,  and  their  high  and  mighty  airs  and  notions— and  they  have  such  stupid 
parties.  Did  you  ever  hear  how  sister  Mary  knocked  down  that  fool  of  a  Page? 
It  went  all  round  town — You  see  he'd  been  a  few  years  in  France,  went  over  as 
John  A.  Page,  and  came  home  as  J.  Augustus  Pa-ge.  Mary  saw  him  on  the  curb 
down  Broadway  and,  when  he  swept  off  his  hat  and  bowed  low  from  his  middle, 
she  nodded,  and  swept  by  carelessly  with  a  "Good-morning,  Mr.  Pa-ge — Are  you 
waiting  for  a  sta-ge?"  "We  just  screamed  over  it,  and  from  all  I  heard  I  guess 
everybody  in  town  laughed" — Then,  with  a  sudden  change — "Papa  says  you 
have  sparkle  and  are  irresistibly  youthful  like  your  laughter;  he  says  too,  you 
have  a  lovely  voice."  Never  can  I  forget  my  overwhelming  delight  that  a  man  of 
such  distinction  and  generosity  should  have  remembered  me. 

I  am  not  looking  at  anything  at  hand  now  but  far  back  to  the  time  when  I 
was  admitted  and  welcomed  as  a  veritable  member  'of  the  Sims  household. 
There  was  one  nightly  scene  that  is  as  clear  as  daylight,  when  the  daughters  said 
their  regular  Good-night  to  the  head  of  the  family;  he  retired,  usually,  very  early 
to  his  room  or  study  as  he  was  at  that  time  beginning  to  write  his  Memoirs.  As 
the  girls,  one  after  another,  bent  to  kiss  him,  he  would  often  say  wearily  "Good- 
night, child,"  and  frequently  made  what  became  a  natural  mistake,  calling  me 
"Daughter"  and  someone  else  "Child".  It  was  all  the  same.  And  so  I  was  in- 
cluded in  affectionate  expressions  as  well  as  in  their  entertainments.  Life  sat 
lightly  on  me— it  was  an  indefinable  sense  of  well  being.  I  did  not  apply  any 
intellectual  or  spiritual  tests  to  my  environment.  It  spelt  oblivion  to  all  that  was 
trying,  and  swamped  the  dull  routine  of  recitations.  I  lived  for  those  week-ends. 
Those  idylls  of  delight  came  regularly,  and  to  this  day  the  memories  have  not 
been  relegated  to  any  remote  corner  of  the  brain. 

The  world  seen  at  the  Sims  and  in  their  circle  presented  many  new  signifi- 
cances not  easily  accountable  to  me.  I  did  not  always  understand  them.  I  was 
sometimes  a  bit  worried  when  a  good  deal  seemed  contrary  to  my  ideas.  I  grasped 
only  vaguely  the  actual  reality  and  importance  of  many  things  about  other  beings, 
who  moved  in  and  out  before  us,  but  the  gay  atmosphere  of  social  excitement 
was  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds  to  live  in.  Youth  and  beauty  carried  every- 
thing before  it,  for  both  were  irresistible,  and  what  did  I  care  about  different  beliefs, 
or  astonishing  differences  of  habit  and  outlook?  To  be  brought  in  constant  con- 
tact with  those  who  look  from  widely  varying  view-points  makes  one  feel  his 
own  affairs  not  of  the  most  momentous,  and  it  is  difficult  to  retain  one's  belief 
in  the  importance  of  one's  self  or  one's  views,  so  it  becomes  of  no  use  to  waste 
much  ponderous  thought  on  them.  Whatever  seems  real  and  present  is  what 
imperatively  appeals,  and  one's  own  existence  and  possessions  not  so  great  a 
matter,  at  least  not  of  the  soaring  importance  hitherto  attached  to  them.  I  did 
not  see  anything  in  that  lively  household  with  amazing  clarity;  but  nothing  dimmed 
its  bright  radiance  and  I  enjoyed  everything. 

The  Puritan  Shadow  was  never  over  me.  I  felt  free  as  air,  and  demonstrated 
emotions  without  embarrassment,  as  I  conveyed,  in  my  most  ingratiating  manner 
to  the  amused  circle,  my  preferences,  purposes,  and  beliefs,  especially  emphasizing 
my  own  infatuation  for  Eliza,  which  had  grown  tremendously  ever  since  she  first 
dawned  on  my  amazed  vision  as  "Sappho"  at  the  Fancy  Dress  school  party  of 
the  year  before.  I  did  not  hesitate  to  show- openly  and  plainly  that  my  highest 
ambition  now  was  to  take  a  step  up  from  intimacy  with  Carrie  to  a  relation  with 
the  incarnated  loveliness,  that  embodied  prose,  poetry,  and  music  to  me,  in  Eliza. 
She  had  made  at  first  glance  her  triumphant  entry  into  my  heart,  and  the  more 
I  saw  her  the  more  she  dazzled  and  captivated  me.  She  accepted  gracefully 
many  timid  offerings.  I  saved  all  my  spending  money  for  flowers  and  little  gifts, 
and  hers  was  always  an  air  of  charming  cordiality — of  gentle  graciousness  that 
contributed  greatly  to  the  whole  effect. 

Mary,  on  the  contrary,  had  an  air  of  hauteur  or  indifference  that  seemed 
to  belong  to  her  distinct  dark  type  of  beauty.     She  was  as  straight  as  an  Indian 


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and  as  aloofly  severe;  and  of  late  that  older  sister  to  whom  they  all  deferred, 
all  seemingly  afraid  of  her  sharp  tongue,  had  acted  rather  strangely  in  not  joining 
in  with  the  family  pleasures;  in  shutting  herself  up  from  usual  approaches  in  a 
sort  of  sullen  silence,  challenging  the  notice  of  her  Mother  especially,  who  said 
in  my  presence  and  on  several  occasions,  "that  she  couldn't  imagine  why  Mary 
was  getting  so  reserved  or  acting  so  depressed."  Alary  was  undoubtedly  and 
strikingly  handsome;  but  she  lacked  the  charm  that  distinguished  Eliza,  whose 
exquisitely  expressive  face,  dark  hair  and  eyes  of  intense  blue,  made  her  the  object 
of  admiration  on  all  sides.  There  was  never  a  glance  toward  me  that  took  the 
joy  of  its  beauty  out  or  caused  any  unease  of  spirit.  When  she  finally  gave  me 
her  confidence,  I  was  lifted  to  a  height  of  satisfaction  that  made  me  often  oblivious 
to  all  others.  Sometimes  her  lovely  face  came  between  me  and  the  book  I  was 
reading,  or  the  piece  practicing,  or  between  me  and  the  grey  curtain  that  sleep 
rolls  down.  She  was  my  first  fountain-head  of  delight,  and  looking  back  to  that 
dusky  perspective — for  I  was  always  gazing  ahead  and  planning — I  could  not 
suffer  in  such  a  new  and  stimulating  circle  from  the  complaisance  that  means 
self-inflation.  And  to  this  day  Eliza,  still  walking  the  same  earth,  living  with  the 
ocean  between  us  for  over  half  a  century,  has  not  lost  that  established  position 
of  favourite  and  favoured. 

The  standards  at  the  Sims'  were  all  socially  glittering.  I  learned  the  live- 
liest, pleasantest  side  of  social  life.  Everything  was  forming  in  me,  not  disin- 
tegrating. I  felt  no  shortcomings  in  their  set.  They  were  not  capricious.  They 
were  all  gracious  and  responsive.  I  was  never  uneasy  as  the  tide  of  gaiety  ebbed 
and  flowed.  I  was  rather  galvanized  into  efforts  to  match  in  interchange,  for  I 
never  felt  my  own  deficiencies  or  inexperience  where  all  was  so  free  and  generous. 
And  so,  spontaneous  myself,  with  an  ever  increasing  familiarity,  speech  never 
seemed  to  stick  in  my  throat  as  with  the  McClintock's.  I  was  often  astounded 
to  learn  of  the  many  heart  affairs  in  that  romantic  household,  where  the  turn  of 
events  could  never  be  prophesied,  where  something  startling  or  new  was  always 
happening,  where  dances  and  dinners  and  parties  and  theatres  and  concerts  startled 
me  by  swift  succession,  and  made  the  accounts  of  said  functions,  each  time  I 
appeared,  seem  growingly  humorous  and  picturesque.  Horses  and  carriages 
seemed  always  at  the  door;  there  was  an  astonishing  abundance  of  floral  offerings 
that  I  had  never  realized  existed  in  such  plenty,  and  like  the  tales  of  lovers  and 
engagements  made  for  excitement  and  adventure.  My  purely  imaginary  pictures 
of  romantic  affairs  and  entertainments  before  had  been  small  enough,  and  ex- 
clusive enough  by  comparison,  but  nothing  could  cut  the  dash  or  sovereignty  of 
those  beautiful  sisters,  whose  canons  of  worldly  success  represented  a  sort  of  life 
hitherto  unknown  to  me.    But  I  was  not  called  upon  to  grapple  with  vital  issues. 

"Oh  come! — come  quick,"  said  Carrie,  grasping  my  arm  as  I  was  about  to 
pass  her  in  the  hall,  "Oh  quick!  I  have  something  awful  to  tell  you."  I  saw  she 
was  flushed  and  almost  gasping  as  she  rushed  me  into  her  room  and  slammed  the 
door.  She  had  just  returned  from  home,  and  not  even  waiting  to  remove  her 
wraps,  turned  her  excited  face  which  instantly  made  me  aware  of  tremendous 
feeling,  to  which  I  responded  with  thrilled  pulses.  Her  tight  clasped  hands  and 
blazing  eyes  made  me  eager  for  the  secret  she  was  ready  to  pour  out.  It  was 
unlikeness  to  any  mood  I  had  ever  seen  in  her,  and  there  was  anger  enough  to 
fairly  frighten  me  as  she  began. 

"It's  awful,  it's  awful,  disgraceful,  dreadful.  Sister  Mary — Sister  Mary — 
she  ran  away — No — she's  home;  but  she  did  run  off  and  weeks  ago  she  got  mar- 
ried over  in  New  Jersey.  Oh!  he's  a  horrid  man — we  hate  him.  Why!  she's 
destroyed  herself.  She's  plunged  a  knife  into  Papa's  heart,  she  was  his  pet.  He 
never  denied  her  anything,  and  now  she  has  injured  us  all,  and  she  doesn't  can-. 
\\  liy!  the  only  way  wc  found  out  was  because  one  of  Papa's  patients  asked  how 
his  daughter,  Mrs.  Carr,  was.  Poor  Papa!  he  was  so  shocked  and  incredulous, 
and  they  told  hini  the  marriage  notice  was  in  a  two-penny  sheet  over  there.  \\  hen 
Sister  Mary  was  taxed  with  her  droit  and  ingratitude  she  said  she  "didn't  care, 
she  didn't  care  what  happened     she  was  so  miserable  she  would  rather  die  than 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


give  him  up".  She  just  raved  like  that.  Papa  stopped  speaking.  He  just  looked 
at  her.  Mama  just  cried  and  cried,  and  sister  Eliza  got  so  pale  and  trembled  so 
she  nearly  fainted  away." 

Carrie's  whole  frame  quivered  with  passion.  Her  eyes  were  luminous.  She 
fixed  those  sorrowful  orbs,  and  her  voice  quick  and  ringing  made  me  shake  with 
the  sympathy  allied  to  fear.  I  have  now  more  than  a  vague  remembrance  of  her 
exclamations  and  expletives,  and  just  as  if  Carrie  was  oblivious  of  my  presence 
and  was  not  talking  about  secrets  of  her  own  family  to  a  stranger,  she  continued 
in  sharp  vibrating  tones. 

"Can  you  believe  in  such  wickedness  and  in  such  a  stupid  choice?  Why! 
that  man  Carr  treated  his  first  wife  brutally;  he  was  divorced  and  married  again, 
that  one  died,  and  now  he  has  hypnotized  my  sister.  He's  hideous,  we  all  hate 
him,  and  he  knew  enough  to  keep  away  from  the  house.  Mamma  says  it  is  as  if 
she  was  bitten  by  a  serpent — poisoned  all  through,  never  once  thinking  of  all  our 
pain  and  trouble.  She  trusted  him  and  believed  his  hateful  pack  of  lies.  She 
said  defiantly,  'They  were  married  because  she  wanted  to  belong  to  him,  and  go 
with  him  to  the  ends  of  the  earth'.  No  wonder  she  has  been  miserable  and  changed 
for  weeks  and  weeks,  for  whenever  he  commanded,  she  met  him  anywhere.  It 
made  no  difference  about  her  family  and  good  name.  She  was  cold  as  marble 
and  raved  right  on — Mad  enough  for  him — saying,  'she  couldn't  rest  and  would 
go  out  of  the  house  this  minute  to  find  him'.  Poor  Papa!  He  just  looked  at  her. 
'I  never  knew  I  had  a  daughter  that  could  disgrace  herself  and  me;  you'll  be 
married  openly  tomorrow,  and  every  paper  in  New  York  will  have  the  notice — 
send  for  him  to  meet  you  at  the  Church  door,'  and  this  very  morning  she  left  us 
without  a  "Good-bye",  and  we  all  stood  at  the  window  and  saw  Father  hand 
her  into  the  carriage.  There  were  no  words  with  Carr,  who  stood  at  the  Church 
steps,  nor  any  farewell  to  Mary.  Papa  stood  just  inside  the  Church  door  until 
the  Ceremony  was  over,  and  then  drove  home  alone." 

Grief,  as  Eliza  afterward  told  me,  only  betrayed  itself  in  her  Father's  rigidity 
of  countenance,  and  hoarseness  of  voice  when  little  Florrie  asked  innocently — 
"Where's  Sister,  Papa?  and  he  said  chokingly,  "Your  sister  Mary  is  dead."  They 
all  maintained  composure  and  a  dignified  silence  in  public,  which  was  heroic,  as 
curiosity  was  rife  in  high  circles;  but  remained  long  unsatisfied. 

I  threw  my  arms  around  Eliza  at  our  first  meeting  after  Carrie's  amazing 
recital,  but  she  seemed  inert,  mute,  stiffening  with  sorrow  and  humiliation.  She 
had  lost  the  sister  from  whom  she  had  never  before  been  separated,  and  hers  was 
no  child-like  lament.  There  were  no  accents  of  distress;  pride  and  love  had  re- 
ceived a  wound  too  deep  for  words.  I  really  gazed  at  them  all  with  a  sort  of 
terror.  The  lost  Paradise  of  family  peace  seemed  for  a  little  to  put  me  out  of 
communion  with  them.  The  story  had  a  strange  effect;  that  ringing  vibrating 
disclosure  of  such  facts,  of  such  delusions,  of  such  defiance  and  despair,  seemed 
to  mix  with  all  my  thoughts,  giving  me  indefinable  feelings  that  made  for  wild 
wonder,  for  delirious  fancies  and  superstitions,  that  prevented  for  a  long  time  the 
escape  or  relief  of  forgetfulness. 

I  so  often  pictured  him,  as  Carrie  described  him:  dark,  very  dark,  she  told 
me,  with  sombre  eyes  beneath  over-hanging  heavy  brows,  with  personal  char- 
acteristics I  judged  to  be  feared.  "You'd  hate  Carr,"  she  always  added,  "and 
to  think  my  sister's  beauty  and  brightness  should  catch  his  evil  eye,  and  that  she 
could  become  infatuated."  It  almost  brought  the  supernatural  near,  to  think  any 
man  could  so  dominate  a  girl  as  to  destroy  all  fealty  or  devotion  to  her  own.  Even 
now  I  recall  with  a  shiver  things  I  heard  of  him.  "Carr  is  a  devil,  desperate, 
sinister,  treacherous.  He  loves  to  show  his  power,  but  her's  will  be  the  fate  of 
others,  he'll  throw  her  over,"  and  the  after  chapters  of  that  sad  history  of  Mary's 
darkened  mind  and  gross  delusions  was  tinged  for  me  with  fascination,  as  well 
as  loathing. 

One  other  passion  possessed  me  and  lightened  those  days,  the  growing  love  of 
music  that  started  its  domination  to  last  with  life,  even  until  its  last  breath. 
Certain  feelings  seem  transmitted  to  me  through  music;  suggestions  insistent  then 


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as  now,  that  have  never  been  expressible  in  words;  that  are  only  translated  in 
heart-beats.  That  Divine  language  of  sound  and  rythm  became  a  net  thrown 
over  me,  when  I  listened  spell-bound  at  the  Philharmonic  rehearsals  and  Concerts, 
for  at  that  time  tickets  could  be  purchased  for  the  weekly  rehearsals  and  monthly 
Concerts,  and  the  Orchestral  renditions  of  great  Masters,  the  recitals  of  known 
Artists,  vocal  and  instrumental,  snared  and  enchanted  me.  And  there  and  then, 
for  me,  listening  became  loving.  It  was  sharp  as  the  sun-shafts  themselves,  beat- 
ing in  lovely  tones  and  wonderful  harmonies  upon  the  spirit  they  captured. 

We  cannot  really  write  our  own  history  without  dwelling  on  particular  lines 
of  emotional  activity,  and  the  merest  trifles  show  how  or  where  one  is  tending. 
The  least  things  teach  how  we  live,  and  it  is  illuminating  now  how  little  I  owed 
to  the  school  or  its  schooling.  I  got  on  with  them  all  without  caring  or  trying  to 
raise  myself  above  the  average  level.  The  fact  is  simple  that  anyone  might  easily 
do  so,  if  she  had  ambition  or  cared  at  all,  but  there  was  never  anything  striking  in 
teaching  or  scholarship,  and  so  no  one  seemed  making  any  long  step  forward  in 
any  line.  There  was  no  open  friction  anywhere,  but  everything  was  limited  and 
partial.  Although  I  have  a  clear  picture  now  of  the  Principal,  Preceptress,  the 
family  of  instructors  and  pupils,  I  was  never  roused  to  admiration  or  ambition, 
and  felt  as  if  I  owed  them  no  allegiance.  I  verily  believe  human  or  vivid  records 
of  daily  life  at  Van  Norman's  are  of  no  value  in  estimating  my  line  of  growth 
or  success. 

The  years  that  have  slipped  by  in  time's  whirligig  have  not  taken  me  from 
those  thoughts,  attachments,  diversions,  or  my  inexhaustible  interest  in  spectacles 
of  the  moving  world,  as  revealed  to  me  in  opportunities  afforded,  and  kaleido- 
scopic changes  in  the  vareties  of  my  experience,  early  and  late,  in  going  to  and 
fro,  and  up  and  down  the  earth.  I  can  easily  piece  together  the  component  parts 
of  intimate  personal  things  which  helped  to  make  me  what  I  am.  They  are  not 
at  all  complicated,  and  any  one  among  you,  beloved  nieces  and  grand-nieces,  can 
pick  them  up  bit  by  bit  and  feel  very  intimate  with  me.  I  do  pique  myself  at 
that  comparatively  early  period  in  not  being  ridiculous,  or  a  mere  toy  or  trifler 
always  in  the  serious  interests  of  life.  I  made  enough  progress  in  a  few  essential 
things  to  believe  it  was  of  no  secondary  importance  for  me  to  keep  wide  awake, 
to  cultivate  my  enthusiasms,  and  to  strive  for  honesty  and  power  to  appropriate. 

To  return  to  the  school,  good  fortune  gave  me  one  teacher  who  commanded 
respect  and  aroused  an  eager  desire  to  please.  The  great  piano  teacher  of  New 
York  was  William  Mason  who  considered  the  fair  daughter  of  the  Van  Norman 
house  one  of  his  best  pupils.  Louise,  beautiful  as  ever  and  as  statuesque,  played 
wonderfully  well  for  the  time,  and  was  fascinating  as  she  sat  at  the  instrument. 
She  had  become  engaged  during  my  trip  over-seas  and  so  to  me  there  was  about 
her  an  additional  halo  of  romance.  She  always  responded  gently  to  my  advances 
and  many  an  hour  in  the  evening,  before  her  lover  arrived,  I  was  allowed  to  sit 
in  the  drawing  room  and  listen  to  her  practise.  Finally,  I  asked  for  her  efforts 
to  get  me  under  the  tutelege  of  her  distinguished  teacher,  with  a  faint  idea,  that 
I  also,  with  such  advantages,  could  play  as  she  did.  But  she  plainly  informed 
me  that  until  I  was  further  advanced  I  would  not  be  accepted  by  Mr.  Mason  in 
classes  or  as  a  special  pupil.  She  was  moved  by  my  enthusiasm  to  suggest  to  her 
Father  to  secure  George  J.  Huss  as  a  preparatory  stage  to  more  respectable  at- 
tainment on  my  part.  Mr.  Huss  was  a  musician  of  recognized  ability  and  grow- 
ing prominence,  a  man  of  marked  character  and  vibrant  with  emotion.  He  im- 
pressed me  from  the  first  moment  as  vital  and  intensely  serious.  I  fell  enough 
released  to  begin  to  enjoy,  and  to  believe  that  I  was  advancing  into  a  wonderful 
realm  under  his  teaching.  It  became  something  from  which  I  could  never  go  back 
even  if  I  had  tried. 

In  a  sense  he  was  gleaming;  hair  of  brown-gold,  sandy  coloured  at  the  edges; 
eyes  of  strangely  sparkling  blue,  intensely  holding  attention  whenever  he  gazed 
a1  one.  He  was  of  middle  size,  a  t  rifle  thick-set  ami  with  slight ly  stooping  shoulders. 
lie  had  a  long  golden  beard  crinkly  and  soft,  thick  and  a  bit  like  golden  tleeee. 
Ideas  sparkled   ami   leaped   v\  hen   he  tried   to  describe  a  composition,  and  all  his 


I'ayr  lf6 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


interpretations  were  poetical;  indifference  or  carelessness  in  that  study  no  longer 
fastened  themselves  upon  me,  I  began  to  be  honest  and  industrious.  Music  had 
closed  about  me  with  its  mighty  spell.  I  loved  it  as  I  loved  the  sun.  I  seemed 
to  get  to  the  sources  of  gladness  when  its  charm  fastened  upon  me.  Something 
plastic  was  being  moulded  in  me.  I  was  being  given  new  ideas  and  fresh  purposes 
as  I  slowly  studied  the  alphabet  of  the  language,  and  tried,  however  stumbling 
or  confused,  to  do  properly  whatever  was  asked — never  embarrassed,  for  I  think 
Mr.  Huss  was  one  of  the  teachers  who  make  one  venturesome.  He  was  culti- 
vated in  manner,  an  educated  gentleman,  and  unlike  other  Masters,  had  a  kind 
way  of  relieving  constraint  or  discomfort.  He  was  never  familiar,  never  unduly 
stern,  and  made  the  effect  of  specially  understanding  one,  which  is  always  a  per- 
sonal tribute. 

I  do  not  think  even  a  poor  pupil  if  at  all  earnest  could  feel  either  dull  or  awk- 
ward, yet  he  did  not  waive  formalities  while  observing  all  the  social  amenities. 
He  sat  carelessly  at  the  piano  when  looking  over  compositions  and  represented 
Germany  and  the  Germans,  absolutely  foreign  and  unknown  to  me.  There  was 
something  of  incalculable  value  in  George  Huss's  ability  and  dignity.  His  in- 
fluence at  that  stage  was  invaluable  to  me;  and  soon  any  failure  not  to  offer  a 
carefully  prepared  lesson  reflected  on  both  my  own  character  and  attainment, 
and  to  my  awakened  fancy  it  indicated  inexcusable  stupidity.  There  was  meaning 
in  all  his  words.  When  he  touched  the  keys  he  usually  looked  up  with  a  smile, 
and  one  of  his  great  expressions  returns  to  me  often.  "First,  Foremost," — when 
he  was  explaining  meaning  by  his  suggested  texts;  or  "First  Foremost,"  you  do 
this— or  try  that — "First  Foremost,  you  see,  it  means  thus  and  so."  And  he 
even  interpreted  for  me  by  stories  and  incidents  some  of  the  great  works  of  the 
great  Masters.  And  slowly  and  surely  the  Orchestra  was  a  great  voice.  It  was 
a  voice  that  called  me  to  its  embrace. 

Just  when  I  first  visited  in  his  charming  little  home  I  cannot  remember.  I 
had  woven  some  romance  over  the  items  of  gossip  regarding  his  marriage  to  a 
beautiful  pupil,  years  before.  Miss  Sophie  Holden,  it  was  told  me,  was  the  niece 
of  a  prominent  man  of  means  and  social  position  who  had  persistently  refused  to 
consider  such  a  union.  Their  mutual  devotion  could  not  overcome  opposition, 
but  at  repeated  entreaties  the  irate  Uncle  had  finally  consented  to  an  interview 
with  the  unwelcome  suitor. 

The  appointed  evening  came.  They  lived  either  up  the  Hudson  or  somewhere 
at  a  distance  from  the  City,  such  points  are  more  or  less  vague  and  lost  in  my 
recollection  of  the  story,  only  that  as  the  hour  arrived — the  lover  did  not.  They 
waited  and  waited — the  weary  hours  passing  and  the  lovely  niece  trembling  with 
apprehension.  The  Uncle,  bitingly  ironic,  half  disgusted  and  wholly  discouraging. 
She  could  only  answer  her  Uncle's  sarcasm  on  the  tardy  swain,  by  meeting  with 
flashing  eye  and  firm  assurance  his  scorn  of  the  man.  She  was  immovable  in 
faith.  She  knew  her  lover.  She  knew  it  was  the  turning  point.  She  had  counted 
on  that  chance,  on  the  effect  of  his  presence,  on  the  magic  of  their  mutual  en- 
treaties. And  now  there  was  only  her  simple  repeated  vehement  declaration — • 
"He  will  come — something  has  happened — he  will  surely  come — don't  close  the 
house — wait  a  little,  for  I  know  he  is  coming."  And  as  time  rolled  on,  just  as 
lights  were  about  to  be  extinguished  and  doors  locked,  weary,  worn,  dust-covered 
and  dishevelled  but  triumphant — the  eager  lover  appeared.  The  train  had  met 
with  a  serious  accident.  He  had  walked  miles,  refusing  to  wait — with  no  trans- 
portation available — and  the  effect  of  that  breathless  entrance  was  instantaneous. 
The  heroine  was  figuratively,  and  I  doubt  not,  literally,  in  her  lover's  arms.  The 
sight  of  such  ardour  was  almost  overpowering;  but  still,  unwilling  to  give  consent, 
I  have  understood  there  were  serious  tests  and  trying  times  before  all  obstacles 
to  union  were  finally  broken  down.  I  had  been  thrilled  to  hear  they  were  still 
reported  to  hold  the  ideal  relation  as  precious  and  sacred,  and  that  they  had 
earned  on  all  sides  the  respect  and  admiration  due  such  high  faith  and  loyalty. 
I  was  enthusiastic  when,  as  an  invited  guest,  they  made  me  welcome  in  their  happy 
little  circle.     Mrs.  Huss,  tall  well-built  and  matronly,  was  the  proud  Mother 


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incarnate.  Her  fine  shaped  head  had  its  crown  of  dark  hair  simply  coiled  in  a 
knot  at  the  nape  of  her  neck.  It  was  always  satiny  smooth  and  shining,  and  she 
personified  neatness  and  efficiency.  Her  eyes  of  gleaming  brightness,  arched  eye- 
brows and  rose-fresh  complexion,  added  to  her  genial  grace  and  made  her  un- 
doubted personal  attraction  evident  to  all. 

Hers  was  a  gentle,  gracious  charm  of  manner,  a  sort  of  satisfactory  calm, 
yet  sometimes  humourous  and  with  her  family  a  bit  critical.  The  children,  Martin, 
Johanna,  Mary  and  Heinrich  were  bubbling  with  gaiety  and  full  of  promise. 
Babetta,  the  last  to  flutter  into  that  home  nest,  if  she  had  then  arrived,  was  too 
young  for  me  to  count. 

It  was  of  great  value  to  me  to  have  the  open  door  to  two  such  lovely  homes. 
The  Sims'  and  the  Huss' — in  a  sense  antipodal,  _,  facing  life  on  mountain  top 
or  in  valley,  yet  sensible  of  values  as  they  appeared,  and  in  harmony  with  their 
own  surroundings.  My  associations  were  indeed  "Stepping  Stones"  that  winter — 
and  they  acted  upon  my  soul  as  surely  as  chemicals  upon  the  negative  of  a  photo- 
graph. It  is  a  stepping  stone  to  knowledge  to  be  entirely  familiar  with  different 
individuals,  varying  view-points,  and  widely  different  characters.  There  are 
searching  tests  of  character  in  apparently  small  events,  in  seemingly  unimportant 
decisions,  even  in  superficial  relations  with  our  kind,  and  the  results  are,  sooner 
or  later,  infallible  in  readjustment  of  the  personal  forces;  in  attitudes  and  poses 
so  that  artificial  portions  of  the  character  are  assumed  or  shed;  and  mind  and 
body  seem  to  grow  quickly,  the  effects  becoming  speedily  visible. 

I  am  filling  pages  here  with  small  details  of  impressions  received,  registered  in 
those  associations  and  experiences,  and  as  I  write  thoughts  beat  on  my  brain 
bright  and  persistent,  bringing  a  sensation  of  activity,  of  vivid  pictures  of  those 
people  and  times  that  make  age  slip  off,  that  make  energies  alive,  and  thoughts 
pour  through  the  mind  to  bring  a  fresh  sense  of  exhilaration.  I  have  dwelt  at 
length  on  little  things  in  the  two  families,  so  far  removed  from  each  other,  be- 
cause in  both  circles  I  found  things  of  real  importance  that  had  strong  influence  in 
directing  and,  I  believe,  in  broadening  and  deepening  future  life  for  me. 

One  other  opportunity  musically,  was  afforded  me  at  that  time  which  has 
proved  of  lasting  interest  and  remembrance.  I  often  accompanied  Carrie  Sims 
to  her  singing  lessons  at  the  Strackosch  home,  where  Carlotta  Patti  taught  a  few 
chosen  pupils.  Adelina,  the  future  Diva,  was  anticipating  her  debut  in  Opera 
with  Brignoli  as  tenor.  Often  we  had  heard  from  her  sister  incidents  of  Patti's 
girlish  career  that  captured  imagination.  And  sometimes  the  carrolling  of  that 
bird  of  song  would  reach  us  at  intervals  in  notes  clear  as  crystal,  notes  wonderful 
and  ravishing  as  she  practised  and  warbled  and  trilled.  She  seemed  to  sing  as  one 
talks,  and,  on  several  occasions  catching  those  heavenly  tones  from  her  distant 
Music  room,  I  would  ask  timidly,  "What  is  your  sister  studying?"  and  the  care- 
less answer  would  leave  me  spell-bound — "Oh,  she  isn't  studying  now — she's  only 
humming  up  there,  possibly  you'll  hear  her  when  she  really  practises  if  only  the 
door  is  ajar.  Today  she  seems  running  over  some  light  Arias  from  "Travatore" 
or  "Martha" — her  real  work  at  present  is  on  "Lucia";  she  makes  her  first  ap- 
pearance in  a  week  or  two  and  the  child  is  awfully  frightened.  Brignoli  laughs 
at  her.  The  other  evening,  after  a  duet  together,  he  said,  'Don't  mind  anybody. 
Miss  Patti,  you  have  the  voice  of  an  angel,  the  world  will  be  at  your  feet.'  Adelina 
had  told  him  several  times  she  'didn't  mind  singing,  but  the  acting  seemed  so 
hard.'  'Nobody  cares  about  the  acting,  you  can  learn  that  later,  don't  get  fright- 
ened, I'm  here  to  support  you.'" 

That  tenor  with  his  marvellous  voice  always  walked  the  stage  like  a  stick 
and  Adelina  never  became  a  dramatic  artist,  although  she  ascended  a  throne  of 
sovereignty  that  she  could  never  wholly  lose,  even  when  age  robbed  her  voice  oi 
perfection.  It  was  said  that  her  sister  Carlotta  but  for  her  lameness,  would  have 
made  a  splendid  success  as  she  had  a  dramatic  sense  with  all  her  other  gilts.  It 
is  amazing  to  recall  tales  I  heard  of  the  Strackosch  Family;  Madam  Strackosch 
also  a  wonderful  musician,  and  tin-  two  younger  sisters,  Carlotta  and  Adelina, 
bom   to  sini-  away   the   hearts  of  men.      I   heard   much   in   that   circle,  ol    Blignoli's 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


colossal  conceit,  his  nonchalance,  indifference  and  egotistical  assurance;  spoiled, 
as  are  so  many  Matinee  idols  by  the  adulation  of  mixed  audiences,  and  especially 
of  excitable  women,  young  and  old.  He  was  indeed  a  great  tenor;  but  not  com- 
parable to  Mario,  who  was  the  next  king  in  the  realm  of  sound  that  I  listened 
to  in  awe  and  delight. 

The  natural  endowments  in  vocalization  of  that  Queen  of  Song,  Adelina  Patti, 
in  her  youth  and  beauty,  left  everyone  far  behind.  Gifted  beyond  measure  she 
wore  her  crown  unchallanged  for  many  years.  I  often  saw  that  little  figure  at 
the  time  of  which  I  write,  slim,  small,  straight  and  graceful,  flash  in  and  out  of 
the  house.  But  she  did  not  look  in  or  smile  at  us.  She  was  too  busy,  too  ab- 
sorbed, too  much  praised  and  sought  for  to  spend  any  time  or  thought  over  out- 
siders. But  well  I  remember  the  morning  after  her  triumphant  appearance  at 
the  academy  of  Music  when  I,  sitting  near  the  door  as  it  chanced  happily  to  be 
Carrie's  hour  for  instruction,  saw  the  excited,  jubilant  and  victorious  young  God- 
dess trip  joyously  down  the  stairs,  humming  lightly  as  she  descended,  to  pass 
rapidly  with  a  toss  of  her  dark  head,  into  the  carriage  in  waiting.  She  was  a 
vision  of  loveliness — those  luminous  dark  eyes,  that  adorable  bloom  on  her  cheek; 
creamy-coloured  she  was,  and  exultantly  flashing. 

And  when  next  I  saw  her,  six  years  after,  at  the  summit  of  glorious  achieve- 
ment, she  was  singing  in  Turin  before  the  King  and  Queen  and  the  ovation  of  a 
multitude.  High  honours  were  hers  in  Italy,  as  in  all  countries  in  Europe.  At 
that  time  I  saw  her  more  than  once  and  she  deigned  to  make  me  welcome.  When 
I  was  invited  to  her  rooms  in  Turin  where  she  brought  out  her  Albums  and  treas- 
ures, and  talked  with  me  of  her  triumphs,  but  simply,  as  one  girl  to  another,  it 
gave  hours  that  even  now  I  am  thrilled  to  remember. 

The  last  time  I  had  an  opportunity  to  visit  or  talk  with  that  imperial  young 
autocrat,  was  in  Genoa.  We  were  at  the  same  Hotel,  and  she  summoned  me  to 
her  room  to  listen  to  a  tale  of  curious  adventure — but  that  is  another  story  which 
does  not  belong  here. 

Somewhere  I  have  read  that  it  is  always  Spring-time,  somewhere  in  the  world, 
and  well  I  understand  now  that  youth  knows  and  remembers  as  age  forgets,  that 
always  there  is  a  place  somewhere  for  love  and  laughter,  and  for  bird-songs  and 
colourful  flowers.  I  never  thought  much  or  deeply  at  that  time.  I  only  loved 
and  delighted  in  those  days,  greeting  the  Summer,  and  feeling  the  joyous  full- 
sapped  Spring. 

THE    DISTANT    DRUM 

Always  on  leaving  home,  or  returning,  it  was  the  Lake  to  which  I  said  fare- 
well last,  or,  in  an  eagerly  watched  for  glimpse  from  the  train,  it  was  the  Lake 
which  welcomed  me  first.  The  treasures  of  beauty  which  are  our  inheritance 
seemed  to  lie  for  me  in  the  Lake  which  had  always  such  intense  charm,  as  if  the 
soul  in  it  caressed  by  the  winds  was  ever  ready  to  speak.  Its  radiance,  its  sparkle, 
its  fury,  its  tumult  all  alike  was  distinctly  a  force  that  I  came  in  contact  with 
constantly.  It  attracted  my  eyes  every  day,  and  between  it  and  me  a  sort  of 
current  of  life  and  joy  revealed  something  far  beyond  words  to  express.  I  can 
never  measure  the  result  of  my  intimate  acquaintanceship  with  my  Lake.  Coming 
and  going  its  proximity,  its  presence  dawned  upon  or  departed  as  something 
given  to  or  torn  from  me,  for  my  eyes  called  upon  my  heart  and  powerfully  in- 
tensified emotion.  I  am  penetrated  by  something  peculiar  to  great  bodies  of 
water  which  all  my  life  has  aroused  images  and  sentiments  curiously  keen. 

Sunset  and  sunrise,  moonrise  and  moonset,  mystery  and  brightness  and  all 
shades  of  imperial  light  in  early  dawns;  noon  splendours,  or  twilight  tints  in 
completion  and  harmony  of  colour;  in  storm  or  calm  or  fog  or  mist,  such  beauty 
of  colour  as  I  have  never  seen  elsewhere  is  in  its  amazing  variety  and  rapid  changes. 

So  has  it  been  for  me  a  supreme  note  that  nature  has  sounded — exhilaration 
flashing  and  disappearing  in  those  changing  surfaces  and  sounding  waves — for- 
ever and  forever  it  is  music,  dreamy  music  that  moves  in  cadences  and  chords. 

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Coming  home  for  Easter  and  my  Birthday,  exultation  in  the  free  air,  under 
the  blue  sky,  on  the  smiling  prairies  and  at  last  by  the  shore,  it  was  as  if  liquid 
light  was  flung  sky-ward  from  some  unplumbed  subterranean  fountain,  riches 
and  heralds  of  joy  heaping  surplus  upon  abundance!  After  all  we  do  not  know 
the  forces  of  nature — we  consider  life  at  a  certain  stage  in  too  ideal  or  too  practical 
a  way.  It  is  simply  according  to  our  own  temperament  and  experience.  So  it  is 
all,  here,  only  the  thought  and  feeling  of  a  single  individual;  not  bound  or  hampered, 
thus  far  in  life  neither  saddened  nor  troubled,  but  freed  by  the  circumstances 
and  conditions  of  birth  and  surroundings. 

Love,  true  family  love  has  its  ebb  and  flow  for  love  is  of  the  spirit.  At  first 
I  was  too  elate,  too  buoyant,  too  sanguine,  too  confident.  It  was  like  a  dream 
that  return  home  for  the  Easter  vacation  and  my  Birthday. 

The  day  was  marvellously  fine  for  March.  The  Lake,  enormous  in  loveliness 
of  dazzling  sapphire  blue,  sang  and  sang  a  triumphant  welcome.  Mellow  golden 
light  that  morning  suffused  everything,  the  very  air  was  liquid  gold.  It  was 
more  than  tonic.  It  had  a  quality  of  intoxication,  a  promise  of  plenty  and  a 
prophecy  of  victory. 

Spring  so  slow  sometimes,  so  coy,  had  made  great  headway  that  year  and 
was  already  in  forecast. 

At  home — at  home — on  my  own  upper  balcony  overlooking  the  Avenue  and 
the  Lake.  All  peace  and  fulfilment  of  hope.  Father  and  Mother — Could  it  be 
only  last  July  that  I  left  them  for  Overseas  with  no  misgivings?  I  had  not  hes- 
itated to  leave  the  safe  land  for  stormy  ocean  and  an  unknown  shore,  turning 
gaily  from  the  home  harbour  to  the  heaving  ship.  And  now  I  asked  myself,  in 
a  sudden  access  of  terror,  how  I  could  have  ventured  so  far?  It  seemed  years 
since  that  parting — that  was  July — this  was  March.  Was  it  all  only  eight  months 
ago  to  this  glad  morning  of  the  nineteenth? 

I  remember  what  clamoured  in  my  heart  as  Mother  piloted  me  up  the  broad 
winding  stairway  into  the  fourth  story  front  room,  all  freshened  and  furnished 
for  my  pleasure.  As  I  was  about  to  step  through  the  glass  door  on  to  the  balcony 
I  loved,  she  called,  and  pointed  to  a  long  box  on  the  bed  which  I  rushed  to  open. 
Lo!  between  its  tissue  sheets  was  an  evening  gown  of  shining  silk;  pale  blue  silk 
shot  through  and  through  with  silver,  shimmering,  changeable  blue  and  silver, 
that  made  one  think  of  moonlight. 

"Oh  Mother!  it's  like  moonlight"  I  cried,  as  she  lifted  and  shook  it  out  for 
my  entranced  gaze.  The  skirt  was  all  narrow  flounced,  each  one  edged  and  fringed 
from  the  silk  itself,  drawn  out  so  that  light  itself  seemed  to  mingle  softly  and 
melt  and  deepen  its  silvery  effects.  The  pointed  bodice,  the  elbow  sleeves,  low 
neck  and  long  train,  was,  to  my  foolish  fancy,  a  departure,  a  step  upward  in  social 
life. 

Never  before  had  I  possessed  such  a  frock — I  must  put  it  on  without  delay — 
turning  and  twisting  I  surveyed  the  effect  in  the  glass  and  revelled  in  the  novelty 
of  sweeping  or  lifting  that  train.  It  was  a  very  harmless  but  very  thrilling  amuse- 
ment. It  was  wonderful  that  Mother  had  sent  to  the  New  York  dressmaker, 
who  had  my  measures,  to  order  a  full  evening  dress!  The  mirror  reflected  a  flushed 
and  complacent  face,  as  I  surveyed  its  counterfeit  in  the  glass,  and  while  I  thought 
that  toilette  extravagantly  beautiful,  I  was  secretly  a  bit  uncertain  and  self- 
conscious,  and  doubted  whether  I  could  live  up  to  its  splendour,  slipping  out 
and  reverently  gathering  up  its  foam  of  blue  and  silver  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been 
garbed  in  moonshine.  "It's  the  finest  I  ever  had  and  fit  for  the  Inauguration 
Ball  in  Washington"  was  my  tribute.  Things  of  unimportance  with  me  had  not 
fallen  into  their  proper  places  and  the  frock  almost  threatened  me  with  mental 
indigestion. 

Before  I  had  ceased  exclamations  and  acknowledgments,  my  Father  joined  us. 
There  was  in  store  for  me  a  surprise  that  dwarfed  all  else.  Opening  the  door 
into  a  hall  bedroom,  adjoining  my  larger  one,  he  beckoned,  and  1  stood  on  its 
threshold  in  speechless  amazement.  The  room  had  been  metamorphosed  into  a 
little  study  all  done  in  green  and  rose,  walls  and  carpets  ami  curtains  all  in  those 


I'nyr  !<>(> 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


chosen  colours.  The  tempting  lounge  and  easy  chair,  pretty  desk-chair  and  Otto- 
man, upholstered  to  match.  The  bright  fire  in  the  little  grate  sent  a  glow  over 
walls  and  furniture,  and  standing  out  above  all  to  challenge  admiration,  was  a 
carved  rose-wood  Secretary. 

Oh!  that  little  Secretary!  Unapproachable  I  thought,  and  more  artistically 
beautiful  than  anything  in  that  line  seen  before  or  since.  Certainly,  as  I  recall 
the  throb  of  delight  with  which  I  looked,  I  know  beyond  all  doubt  never  but 
once  since  have  I  gazed  upon  any  gift  that  so  moved  me.  The  Birthday  twenty 
years  later  when  my  Father  handed  me,  with  his  blessing,  the  Deeds  of  my  "  Anchor- 
fast"  gave  me  a  greater  degree  of  joy  than  any  ever  known  before  or  since.  His 
words  ring  now,  as  then,  and  will,  while  I  have  any  sense  of  blessedness  left  me. 
He  looked  up  at  me  smiling — "He  will  give  thee  the  desires  of  thine  heart." 

It  was  the  same  smile  now  as  he  pointed  to  the  little  Secretary,  with  its  quaint 
carving,  its  shining  surface,  its  fine  Inlay,  its  secret  drawers,  its  shelves,  and  its 
partitions  large  and  small,  all  making  that  perfectly  fitted  beautiful  rose-wood 
desk  my  greatest  pride. 

There  behind  locked  doors  were  my  choicest  books,  and  there  I  hid  away  later, 
my  prized  letters  and  private  Journals.  It  was  a  treasure-trove.  Alas!  the  Great 
Fire,  ten  years  later  that  destroyed  our  home,  reduced  that  and  all  other  pos- 
sessions to  ashes.  Mine  only  for  a  decade,  and  I  have  mourned  for  it  ever  since. 
The  many  desks  bestowed  or  purchased,  have  never  equalled  my  flooding  joy  in 
that  first  one. 

As  I  looked  at  it  that  morning  satisfied  pride  could  find  no  words.  "Oh  Father! 
Oh  Father!  How  good  you  are — How  I  love  you — What  a  Father  I  have."  And 
his  answer  at  that  moment  crowns  me  now  after  sixty  years,  as  it  uplifted  me 
then,  when  he  drew  me  into  his  arms  saying,  "And  I  have  the  dearest  daughter 
in  the  world."  We  entered  the  lovely  little  room  which  I  boastfully  called  my 
"Penetralia" — and  I — I  was  inoculated  with  delight.  My  feet  were  shod  with 
a  sense  of  the  value  of  possessions,  the  day  had  become  rapturous! 

Who  could  dream  in  the  midst  of  exuberant  satisfaction  of  partings  and  perils, 
of  things  catastrophic  and  dreadful?  How  was  it  possible  with  everything  smilingly 
gracious  and  amply  satisfying,  all  warmed  and  enveloped  with  love,  to  fear  disaster 
or  change,  or  hear  a  single  beat  of  the  distant  drum?  Death  could  not  whisper 
then  of  its  approaching  harvest.  So  much  comes  back  now  as  the  memory  of 
summer  days  come  back  in  winter  time.  The  memory  of  those  times  preceding 
the  War  when  no  one  seemed  burdened  with  stern  anxiety,  and  life  itself  partook 
of  the  brightness  and  glory  of  sea  and  sky. 

They  had  planned  for  a  "Surprise  Party"  to  celebrate  my  so-called  "Coming 
of  Age".  It  was  twelve  years  after  the  first  entertainment  when,  with  ambition 
stirred  and  nascent  hospitality  excited,  I  had  fared  forth  proudly  with  permission 
to  ask  six,  the  number  of  my  years,  and  egged  on  by  a  little  companion,  we  had 
invited  forty.  It  was  a  "real  party"  I  wanted  then,  and  this  evening  was  to 
be  the  culmination  of  any  such  desires.  It  proved  indeed  a  thorough  success 
from  every  point  of  view.  Comfort  and  cordiality  was  happily  combined.  To 
my  partial  eyes  the  table  with  its  eighteen  candles  on  the  ornate  Birthday  cake, 
and  all  accompanying  decorations,  had  a  peculiarly  brilliant  effect.  As  the  guests 
arrived,  Elysabeth  after  expressing  warm  pleasure  over  the  reunion,  looked  me 
over  with  a  little  twinkle,  and  remarked  with  her  air  of  amused  cynicism,  "Plainly 
you  have  on  your  war-paint,  as  if  for  conquest."  And  Jessie  Bross  who  joined 
us  added,  "I  don't  know  which  I  love  best,  Nina  or  her  clothes."  Everyone 
appeared  glad  to  see  me,  to  think  me  all  right,  to  be  pleased  with  the  feast.  We 
all  seemed  to  be  talking,  laughing,  and  eating  in  the  midst  of  flowers.  On  all 
sides  it  was  an  ebullition  of  youth  and  its  forces.  A  revelation  of  physical  force, 
immaterial,  invisible  but  sustaining,  exciting  and  communicating  itself  in  exchange 
of  compliments,  and  sensations  of  pleasure  so  keen  as  to  be  almost  novel  in  effect. 

Mr.  Chandler  had  sent  me  beautiful  flowers  with  a  most  generously  worded 
note  "hoping  I  was  to  stay  longer  at  home  this  time,  declaring  I  was  missed,  not 
only  by  family  and  outside  friends,  but  especially  by  one  who  hoped  to  claim 

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eventually  special  privileges,  a  little  more  than  friendship,  if  he  might,"  and  after 
that  delicate  flattery  he  "wished  me  all  good"  and  signed  himself  my  admiring 
friend.  I  can  never  forget  those  words  of  warmth  and  encouragement  and  kind 
prophecy  that  dreadful  hour  after  Aunt  Elisabeth's  wedding,  when  I  had  over- 
heard such  crushing  comments. 

George  Chandler  was  a  man  of  unusual  charm  and  courtesy,  of  nobility  and 
undoubted  standing — the  ideal  gentleman.  His  attitude  toward  me  and  kind 
attentions  had  always  been  a  source  of  thankfulness  and  pride.  When  he  ap- 
proached that  evening,  with  smiling  and  conventional  compliments,  I  felt  suddenly 
as  if  I  would  like  to  give  him  that  assurance  of  affectionate  confidence  which  makes 
the  real  joy  of  friendship — which  is  its  crown. 

But  when  earlier,  I  had  been  handed  a  finely  bound  copy  in  the  original  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne's  Letters,  and  read  on  its  title  page  in  French,  and  in  the 
donor's  handwriting,  "that  the  book  really  belonged  to  me  as  to  one  of  her  legiti- 
mate daughters,"  such  a  compliment  from  Dr.  Bevan  was  overcoming!  I  was 
going  from  one  surprise  to  another,  and  becoming  rapidly  and  confusedly  a  sort  of 
phenomenon  to  myself.  It  was  a  sensation  of  warm  joy  that  went  through  me  to 
feel  communication  re-established  again  between  me  and  our  distinguished  phy- 
sician and  friend.  Often,  someway,  with  him,  insufficient  as  was  the  result  of  my 
studies  under  his  guidance,  I  had  always  been  made  to  reflect  deeply  in  spite  of 
myself,  or  my  apparent  lightness  of  nature.  I  had  realized  something  wonderful 
with  him,  the  transmission  of  thoughts  without  words,  the  intuitions,  the  power 
that  another  can  acquire  over  us.  He  had  seemed  to  set  vision  right  by  new 
currents  of  thought,  by  ideas  in  the  air,  by  startling  flashes  of  revelation  that  had 
made  of  me  an  adoring  pupil.  And  how  could  he,  so  learned  as  to  be  wonderful, 
pay  me  a  compliment  of  that  order?  Nature  puts  upon  us  all  the  sacred  badge 
of  birth,  breeding,  personality  and  bearing,  but  intellectual  gain  is  something  we 
acquire.  Certainly  I  had  achieved  by  worthy  or  serious  work,  very  little  indeed 
in  that  line. 

I  was  no  scholar — and  I  hated  to  admit  the  truth — I  was  no  honest  student. 
I  felt  and  knew  that  slight  surface  gifts  of  expression,  a  fair  vocabulary  and  ease 
of  speech,  did  not  argue  any  real  accomplishment  or  depth  of  knowledge;  yet 
something  visible  distinguishes  while  it  separates  us  from  each  other,  or  divides 
us  from  other  classes  or  groups,  and  certain  individuals  radiate  something  that 
attracts  and  impresses  whether  they  really  have  or  not  the  gifts  or  endowments 
we  credit  them  with. 

When  I  could  secure  a  word  of  praise  from  that  high  source  it  had  been  worth 
effort  because  it  appealed  as  highest  good.  So  when  Dr.  Bevan  asked  kindly, 
after  offering  usual  congratulations,  "if  I  cared  to  read  again  under  his  guidance?" 
I  felt  the  blood  rush  from  heart  to  face — "Oh!  when  the  school  year  is  over,  if 
only  you  would  let  us  come?  Why!  I  never  learned  half  as  much  from  any  school 
or  books  before."  "You  have  learned  more  than  books  can  teach,"  he  said  kindly, 
and  flushed  and  happy  I  felt  confused  with  conviction  of  his  interest  and  regard, 
and  quickly  added,  "Oh  you  don't  know — you  can't  know  how  I  shall  love  to 
begin  again — and  Elysabeth  too,  will  be  overjoyed.  I  always  wondered  at  your 
patience  with  me,  she  is  so  clever,  I  never  can  reach  up  to  that  height."  "The 
Stars  differ  in  magnitude,"  was  his  smiling  reply  as  he  gave  way  to  other  guests. 
Everyone  so  beautiful  in  kindness,  so  unstinted  in  jubilant  expression! 

All  was  jollity  and  festivity  but  the  consummation  of  delight  was  the  appear- 
ance among  late  comers  of  my  "Prince  Charming".  Heavens!  What  an  honour! 
All  the  others  dropped  plumb  into  insignificance  before  this  interesting  and  ex- 
traordinary youth,  who  alone  could  produce  effects  and  sensations  communicated 
from  the  peculiar  magnetism  that  set  him  apart,  and  could  arouse  (.-motions  of 
inward  excitement  that  made  me  answer  volubly  all  his  courteous  inquiries,  and 
fancy  him  a  little  less  impersonal  than  usual.  Always  before  even  if  he  looked  at 
mc  at  all,  it  was  as  if  he  was  looking  beyond  and  not  really  at  me. 

I  suppose  any  girl  is  half  in  love  with  some  sort  of  a  Fairy  Prince — and  the 
tremendous  impression  of  his  distinction  and   unique  charm  of  mind   had   never 


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been  effaced.  If  he  had  not  really  achieved  what  set  him  high  and  apart  from  all 
created  men,  the  reins  of  my  imagination  gave  him  that  preeminence  and  supremacy 
so  that  he  held,  still  unknowing  and  uncaring,  my  whole  fealty  and  emotional 
subserviency.  He  was  nineteen  when  I  first  swung  incense  before  that  shrine 
and  I — fourteen.  Four  years  had  not  levelled  him  to  the  stature  of  the  rest  of 
mankind.     He  was  the  Super-man  incarnating  all  the  virtues. 

What  would  have  been  the  effect  if  I  had  ever  really  known  him?  If  he  had 
really  existed  near  at  hand,  and  the  ceremonials  of  every-day  life  occasionally 
lifted  his  crown  to  allow  of  hair-brushing  and  face-washing? 

But  upon  my  mettle  that  night  I  wanted  to  assume  him  as  a  Tutelary  Genius; 
in  sanguine  expectation — arrayed  in  my  blue  and  silver  splendour — I  looked  for 
his  regarding  me  with  an  eye  of  favour.  I  was  now  of  age  legally.  I  was  now 
a  traveler.  I  was  now  a  woman  of  the  world — but  alas!  the  art  of  attracting 
men  I  had  yet  to  learnl  argely,  for  a  novice's  effort  could  make  but  little  headway 
with  that  high-minded,  high-spirited,  God-like  youth,  whose  reserve  and  pride 
defeated  itself  as  far  as  I  was  concerned!  Mentality  creates  its  particular  at- 
mosphere that  is  immediately  felt,  and  his  wandering  gaze  and  slight  inattention 
stabbed  me  with  keen  disappointment.  Yet  I  was  ready  to  open  out  as  never 
before  to  any  other  soul — I  had  never  wished  to  share  intimate  experiences  before. 
Now  I  wanted  to  tell  the  truth  of  that  experience  in  Paris — I  wanted  to  put  him 
in  complete  possession  of  my  deficiencies  and  the  facts  of  my  defeat.  At  bottom, 
I  was  comfortably  sure  I  could  imprecate  myself  without  great  fear  of  his  full 
credence — for  I  had  just  heard  him,  in  answer  to  my  feverish  remark  on  being 
delighted  to  see  my  friends  again  after  such  long  absence — "Wonderful  to  have 
had  a  whole  month  in  Paris  under  fortunate  circumstances,  but  you  were  born 
fortunate,  and  you'll  always  be  adorably  young." 

Could  I  have  heard  aright? — but  he  covered  it  with  a  slight  ironical  smile  and 
continued  in  a  tone  slightly  chilled — "Much  water  has  gone  under  the  Bridge 
in  these  last  years.  No  wonder  you  are  changed  and  are  slipping  out  of  reach. 
Life's  a  queer  mix-up,  the  more  people  we  meet,  the  more  places  we  visit,  the  more 
things  we  do  improve  us  if  they  can  be  made  profitable  as  well  as  pleasant." 

This  to  me  was  the  height  of  wisdom.  Solomon  himself  could  not  have  said 
it  so  well.  All  the  Ancient  and  Modern  Philosophies  were  condensed  in  those 
platitudes — to  me  those  wonderful  and  eloquent  words!  "Oh!"  I  said,  inter- 
rupting that  crystal  flow  of  speech,  unable  to  hide  the  eagerness  with  which  I 
coveted  a  word  of  praise,  "Oh!  do  you  think  I'm  improved?"  I  had  been  caught 
up  as  in  a  whirlwind  and  did  not  distinguish  those  commonplace  expressions  from 
the  higher  feelings,  the  profound  sympathy  and  ardent  interest  that  draws  into 
closer  union — that  transmutes  everything  into  gladness  and  fruition — I  was 
catching  at  straws,  and  trying  to  lean  on  broken  reeds. 

Meantime  with  a  half  quizzical  smile,  he  was  answering — "Why  you've  gained, 
certainly  you  must — you  must  have  had  eye-openers — but  improved — that  isn't 
the  word.  Of  course  you've  greatly  changed,  but  degrees  of  improvement  it  would 
be  presumption  to  mention.  Who  would  dare  to  comment,  discuss  or  ride  the 
high  horse  here,"  with  an  amused  glance  around,  "it's  enough  that  one  is  richer 
■in  experience  and  older  in  years" — with  a  light  manner  not  characteristic,  that 
acted  on  my  sudden  appeal  as  if  it  were  ashes  to  be  scattered. 
•  It  is  perhaps  a  misfortune  that  we  do  not  know  ourselves  better  and  therefor 
can  never  measure  the  forces  within  us.  There  is  no  age  when  we  may  not  foolishly 
or  unwisely  express  ourselves,  lose  our  poise,  or  fall  into  gulf  or  morass.  And  I — 
ardent,  impetuous,  enthusiastic,  without  judgment  to  balance  intelligence,  and 
give  insight,  was  in  the  midst  of  an  animated  effort  to  prolong  the  attitude, and 
to  hug  myself  in  the  Elysium  of  hope.  I  had  sailed  very  near  the  wind,  but  I  was 
not  out  of  my  depth.  Love — Love,  even  an  unfed  flame  like  mine,  being  in  its 
purity  an  Angel  of  Nature,  had  secured  me  in  those  few  seconds  of  ordinary  inter- 
change a  divine  moment.  The  Great  Invisible  had  given  it  as  if  a  phenomenon 
had  just  happened  to  us  both.    There  are  always  invisible  exchanges  taking  place 


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and  consequently  the  necessary  transmission  of  images — and  just  then  nature 
had  seemed  to  want  to  put  us  together. 

In  the  midst  of  the  real  and  the  unreal  there  had  been  a  revelation  of  that 
psychical  force,  immediate  and  invisible  and  based  alone  or  created  wholly  by 
my  own  fancy.  And  you  will  agree  that  as  he  moved  out  of  sight,  and  I  was  dropped 
from  the  summit  it  was  being  rather  pitifully  rewarded  for  unasked  bestowments! 
Some  way  before,  his  indifference  had  never  exasperated  me.  In  his  case  it  had 
not  challenged  me  to  defiance  or  any  attempt  to  secure  notice — I  had  accepted 
the  fact — I  never  dreamed  of  blaming  him  for  not  caring — such  was  my  profound 
reverence.  I  was  too  devoutly  impressed  with  the  conviction  of  a  super-integrity 
that  separated  and  made  him  sacred. 

Whatever  first  developes  in  the  region  of  the  emotions  begins  in  the  heart 
and  not  in  the  head,  developes  feelings  into  ideas  and  not  ideas  into  feelings.  I 
won't  attempt  to  verify  anything  in  my  own  case  or  attempt  to  get  a  non-rational 
thing  rationalized.  I  am  more  profoundly  impressed  with  the  power  of  feeling 
than  of  reason  or  intuition,  or  learning  or  logic.  It  is  in  the  heart  where  the  spring 
of  action  lies  hidden,  and  you — my  young  grand-nieces — if  you  have  enough 
ardour  and  sympathy  to  comprehend,  can  join  me  now  and  let  laughter  pass 
over  us  like  a  happy  wind! 

You  know  I  had  not  then  that  real  comprehension  of  life  and  humanity  which 
is  priceless  and  comes  late  in  life  if  it  comes  at  all.  I  could  not  know  how  to  look 
at  such  things  in  their  proper  light.  Existence  itself  is  facile  when  trifles  give 
delight.  One  may  not  care  to  grasp  or  understand  but  thoughts  like  memories 
live  in  us  always.  There  had  been  no  moral  ravages,  and  the  repairing  or  restoring 
the  balance  of  vision  gave  me  no  lasting  sorrow  or  any  prostration  then  or  after- 
wards. The  sentiment  that  had  bound  me  to  the  "dream"  could  not  suddenly 
die  out  but  the  clearing  of  my  faculties  that  evening  was  a  marvelous  step  towards 
recovery.  It  was  not  extinction,  but  the  positiveness  of  unreality,  that  no  com- 
mensurate feeling  for  me  could  ever  exist,  which  made  something  melt  away;  a 
something  that  prevailed  in  me  to  rise  above  the  youthful  pride  that  craved  as- 
surance of  approval;  just  as  one  in  prayer  arises  without  receiving  the  immediate 
uplift  that  is  needed,  and  still  lacks  the  reward  of  appeal  or  the  return  from  a 
responsive  intelligence. 

But  certain  sentiments  always  give  out  warm  rays.  It  was  a  veritable  glow 
that  I  had  felt  when  bent  upon  pleasing  him  in  the  vein  most  tractable,  ready 
with  gratuitous  and  spontaneous  offering — heart  in  outstretched  hand — his  won- 
derous  condescension  adequately  furnished  for  the  moment  the  basis  for  enthusiasm 
my  spirit,  or  emotional  energy  of  imagination  and  feeling,  had  required.  With 
the  sigh  that  follows  ineffable  beatitude  my  eyes  were  ready  to  tell  a  further  tale, 
had  not  his  vast  presence  been  quietly  withdrawn  by  the  interruption  of  a  voice 
at  our  side  that  doubtless  gave  the  hero  of  my  drama  his  coveted  opportunity  to 
seek  other  and  less  feverish  listeners,  or  withdraw  entirely  from  the  madding  crowd. 

By  a  miracle  of  perspective  assisted  by  riotous  imagination  I  followed  his 
royal  figure  for  a  second,  before  startled  and  perplexed  I  realized  Mrs. Doughty 
and  her  pretty  daughter  were  talking,  and  that  the  magnetic  current  had  been 
broken.  It  was  too  sharp  a  drop  to  give  immediate  attention  to  such  details  of 
small  sublunary  things,  but  in  answer  to  my  blank  look  I  heard  again — "Just 
think!  I've  been  successful — I've  just  won  your  Mother's  consent — You  are 
going  with  us  to  Cincinnati — with  my  daughter  and  me  to  my  sister's  house-party." 
And  pretty  Mattie  by  her  Mother's  side,  a  bright  light  in  her  eyes  and  a  deeper 
pink  on  the  delicate  checks  added  eagerly,  "It  will  be  line  at  Aunt  Mary's,  Nina, 
I'm  so  ylad  you're  going." 

It  was  Mrs.  Doughty's  interruption  that  reinstated  me.  Consciousness  coming 
back  to  leave  only  a  sense  of  possibly  a  great  event  reduced  to  the  most  ordinary 
commonplace,  the  whole  being  a  source  of  no  lasting  import.  Aiul  all  of  this — 
not  demanding  explanation  or  elaboration  has  been  dwelt  upon  at  length  because 
i he  seemingly  slighl  episode  was  practically  the  last  chance  for  any  real  under- 


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standing,  calculated  to  encourage  me,  since  they  were  practically  his  last  words 
to  me. 

In  less  than  a  month  he  was  to  pass  out  of  sight  forever  in  a  blaze  of  patriotism 
and  glory,  and  reminders  now  of  my  last  lovely  Birthday  party  for  years,  of  that 
conversation  and  the  kindness  on  every  side,  gives  me  fresh  vigor  of  soul.  After 
all  as  little  of  value  as  there  was  between  that  young  Patriot  and  myself  he  left 
me  an  enchanting  image  to  apotheosize,  and  as  it  brings  his  face  before  me  the 
charm  is  always  there  clinging  to  my  heart. 

Maturity  comes  a  little  slowly  when  protected  from  life  by  its  outward  routine 
and  the  unchanging  love  of  Parents.  I  had  always  been  protected  by  associations, 
by  loyalty  to  familiar  standards,  and  by  my  very  deep  affection  for  my  own. 
It  was  an  ample  inheritance  of  ideas  and  ideals  that  Puritan  Ancestry  and  my 
own  more  broad-minded  Parents  had  endowed  me  with,  so  that  I  was  not  wholly 
without  ballast  or  in  any  real  danger  of  acting  like  a  mad-cap.  I  suppose  we 
persuade  ourselves  out  of  pure  love  of  sensation — but  Mrs.Doughty's  words  had 
pronounced  an  exorcism.  Life  was  too  transfiguring  in  promise  not  to  renew  my  spirits. 

Three  days  after  we  were  steaming  towards  Cincinnati.  It  was  my  first  house- 
party  and  I  was  tense  with  anticipation.  The  City  climbed  heights.  On  the 
low-levels  where  it  stretched  and  straggled  it  seemed  enveloped  in  smoke.  The 
winds  could  not  blow  that  envisaging  cloud  of  mist  or  smoke  or  fog,  that  veiled 
and  hid  in  a  sort  of  murk  the  vistas  and  views  and  thewinding  or  ascending  streets. 
It  was  very  grimy,  and  the  lower  town  seemed  contaminated  with  smirch  and  stain 
of  soot.  Chicago  was  crude,  rough  and  young,  and  muddy  in  its  up  and  down 
street  levels;  unfinished  and  slovenly,  yes — yes,  but  not  unclean  enough  to  be 
defiled  by  its  dirt.  I  secretly  made  comparisons  with  that  older  and  more  aristo- 
cratic City,  warmed  by  my  natural  partiality,  and  surprised  into  sharp  criticism 
by  first  sight  and  first  impressions.  I  liked  the  picturesque  effect  of  building 
on  hills  but  nothing  else. 

To  enter  the  Kilbreth  Mansion,  spacious,  dark,  cool  and  comfortable  to  the 
point  of  luxury,  cured  me  of  all  distaste  and  gave  a  fresh  lease  or  fresh  zest  to  the 
days.  Its  gracious  mistress  was  more  than  cordial  in  her  welcome  to  me,  the  only 
stranger  of  the  party;  charmingly  genial,  and  before  long  I  seemed  almost  to  catch 
a  glint  of  affection  in  her  kind  eyes.  Mrs.  Kilbreth  would  be  recognized  anywhere, 
and  at  first  glance,  as  a  personage  of  importance.  She  was  always  dignified  and 
efficient,  and  her  beautiful  silvering  dark  hair  crowned  a  countenance  benignant, 
strong  and  sweet.  She  had  a  genius  for  making  everyone  comfortable,  and  her 
perfect  ease  and  grace  of  manner  and  indulgent  smile  was  peculiarly  winning. 
Instinctive  sympathy  made  her  anxious  that  her  handful  of  young  people  should 
find  freedom  as  well  as  pleasure  under  her  roof.  It  was  in  the  tradition  of  her 
family  neither  to  watch  too  closely  nor  to  patronize  openly.  In  all  little  things 
therefor,  it  was  Liberty  Hall;  but  with  a  chaperon  delighted  in,  deferred  to  and 
honoured.  One  thing  I  noticed  at  once,  Mrs.  Kilbreth's  adoration  of  her  sons. 
It  expressed  itself  in  a  happy  sort  of  dependence  upon  the  older,  and  an  indescrib- 
able, joyous  pride  in  the  youngest — just  then  home  from  Harvard,  where  he  had 
made  good  and  ranked  high.  He  had  a  few  College  mates  hailing  from  Cincinnati 
who  added  frequently  to  the  gay  circle. 

Will  Kilbreth  was  married;  but  fortunately  under  his  Mother's  roof  much 
of  the  time.  He  was  very  impressive  in  appearance,  suave  and  rather  courtly  in 
manner.  His  was  a  trained  intelligence,  alert  and  able,  with  a  controlling  hand  on 
family  and  financial  interests.  His  mind  was  quick  if  not  as  scholarly  as  his  younger 
brother's.  Jim  Kilbreth  was  undoubtedly  brilliant,  sprightly  and  spirited.  He 
was  possibly  hasty  in  decisions,  and  stubborn  in  holding  to  them,  but  he  had  a 
classified  sort  of  intellect.  If  the  older  was  slower  and  in  action  surer,  it  argued 
perhaps  that  he  was  the  wiser,  certainly  the  cooler  in  his  judgments,  and  I've 
heard  he  made  the  fewer  mistakes.  But  there  was  a  fascination  in  the  younger's 
clear-cut  face,  in  his  eloquent  mischievous  eye,  his  easy  grace  of  bearing  and  low- 
pitched,  clear  voice.  He  was  like  his  courteous,  warm-hearted  Mother,  of  whom 
I  grew  fonder  every  day. 


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Two  nephews  made  up  the  quartette  of  four  men  casually  and  constantly 
together  as  members  of  that  household.  They  were  fine  looking  twin  brothers, 
Press  and  Jim  Guthrie,  of  excellent  family  and  faultless  breeding.  They  dressed 
well  and  nothing  disqualified  them  for  position  and  favouritism,  of  which  I  saw 
they  were  well  aware.  They  evidently  had  considerable  general  information  and 
showed  great  interest  in  sport  and  society.  I  had  never  seen  such  tall,  well  de- 
veloped young  men.  They  dwarfed  other  youths;  far  less  lettered  than  their 
cousins;  they  were  cut  to  such  a  knightly  pattern,  with  such  an  easy,  soldierly 
bearing,  and  yet  for  those  stunningingly  handsome  Guthries,  I  never  felt  any 
twinge  of  sentiment.  In  twins  there  is  said  to  be  a  curiously  psychological  twin- 
ship  as  well  as  the  physiological  likeness.  The  "Magnificent  Two"  were  very 
much  alike,  puzzling  to  distinguish  at  first,  and  yet  if  one  rivets  thought  on  any 
single  point  of  slight  difference  it  will  fix  itself,  and  it  is  easy  then  not  to  mistake 
the  one  from  the  other.  I  never  did  after  the  first  day,  and  our  acquaintance 
lasted  years.  They  survived  the  War  with  the  record  of  bravery;  and  Press,  my 
favourite,  was  one  of  the  groomsmen  at  my  cousin,  Joe  Evans'  wedding,  where  as 
first  bridesmaid,  I  was  to  stand  with  General  Custer.  I  liked  and  respected  those 
sons  and  nephews,  and  I  felt  more  than  passing  satisfaction  when  in  turn  I  was 
sought  or  singled  out  for  kind  attentions,  or  escorted  to  certain  of  the  series  of 
gay  entertainments  given  for,  and  returned  by  that  bright  house-party. 

The  two  nieces,  Mattie  Doughty  and  Mattie  Guthrie  were  beautiful  girls. 
They  attracted  without  effort  and  were  not  unduly  conscious  of  their  own  fair- 
ness. The  former  seemed  to  know  always  how  to  make  the  most  of  herself,  as 
sure  of  herself  as  if  she  owned  the  earth!  Yet  she  moved  and  spoke  without  ar- 
rogance or  assumption,  and  was  at  home  in  any  situation  whether  rehearsed  or 
unexpected.  I  think  Mattie  Doughty  at  that  early  stage  of  youth  had  an  un- 
compromising sensitiveness,  that  accounted  for  a  certain  hard  fineness  and  aloof- 
ness that  did  not  allow  her  to  come  to  terms  with  the  claims  of  her  fastidiousness, 
and  admit  of  easily  bridging  over  and  adjusting  differences.  Such  regnant  beauty 
as  hers  was  an  impregnable  stronghold;  a  fortress  or  citadel  of  confidence  from 
which  to  view  with  rare  assurance,  or  to  dismiss  with  calm  celerity,  any  who  ap- 
proached or  attacked,  without  the  pass-word  of  her  permission.  She  was  more 
than  a  trifle  impatient  with  thwarting  conditions  or  circumstances,  but  soft  in 
many  ways  and  words,  holding  the  admiration  of  different  and  divergent  people. 
She  was  getting  ready  even  then,  and  all  unconsciously  for  the  social  prestige  of 
a  high  position  in  Army  circles,  where  the  rank  and  generalship  of  her  popular 
husband  gave  her  vantage  ground  that  enabled  her  to  eclipse  and  take  precedence, 
and  by  great  charm  to  attract  and  endear  many  in  that  critical  set,  who  otherwise 
would  have  remained  unfriendly  and  as  rivals.  I  realized  when  I  met  her  long 
years  after  at  Fort  Sheridan,  as  the  wife  of  its  Commandant,  how  her  exquisite 
refinement  and  developed  graciousness  had  fitted  her  to  adorn  the  post. 

Her  cousin,  Mattie  Guthrie,  was  of  the  recognized  family  type,  with  family 
tradition  of  good  looks  above  the  average,  but  on  a  far  more  delicate  scale.  She 
was  very  dainty,  very  fair,  but  small  as  to  height  and  impressiveness.  Artists 
would  hail  her  merit  for  the  canvas  with  acclamation,  while  yet  to  perpetrate 
upon  canvas  that  ethereal  sort  of  loveliness  would  defy  the  brush.  Subtlety  of 
modelling,  and  a  rare  spirituality  gave  value  to  face  and  features.  She  was  touched 
by  some  inward  flame,  and  without  understanding  it,  I  answered  to  the  flash, 
for  she  too,  had  a  share  in  that  biggest  of  all  gifts,  indescribable  and  irresistible 
charm.  Those  long-lashed  blue-grey  eyes,  grey  or  blue,  of  the  greyest  or  bluest 
as  sentiment  or  sensation  dictated,  under  black  pencilled  eye-brows  were  worth 
looking  at,  and  the  hair,  a  fleecy  dark  cloud  against  her  low  white  brow,  framed 
the  pale  yet  slightly  rose-tinted  face  exquisitely.  She  was  indeed  like  a  flower — 
and  not  long  to  bloom  in  our  cold  earth.  She  wore  what  I  could  never  recognize 
and  had  never  seen  before — the  look  of  those  about  to  pass  early.  She  or  Fate 
was  to  crowd  seasons  of  leadership  and  loveliness  into  a  relatively  short  one  01 
years.  There  was  occasionally  a  roguish  li.u'ht  in  her  Bmiling  glances,  bul  more 
often  they  wore  a  brooding  look,  ai  times  appealing, even  pathetic.    The  subtle 

i  (id 


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sweetness,  shrinking  shyness,  yet  tenderness  in  face,  and  tenderness  in  voice, 
was  never  wholly  lost.  They  were  so  unlike,  those  two  Matties,  but  a  joy  to  look 
at — they  were  living  poems.  The  one  had  no  coquetry  in  her,  and  yet  in  the  game 
of  life  played  there  in  miniature,  the  victory  was  oftener  in  the  former's  hand. 
I  remember  how  I  loved  to  watch  them,  their  words,  their  slightest  gestures  had 
fascination,  and  often  looking  at  them  I  felt  my  eyes  were  no  longer  enough  for 
the  looking  and  admiring. 

I  was  so  moved  and  gladdened  at  sight  of  my  old  room-mate,  Florence  Foster, 
still  more  mature,  and  if  possible  more  brilliant.  How  proud  I  felt  that  notwith- 
standing her  superior  years  and  superior  attainments,  the  intimate  school  as- 
sociation at  Van  Norman's  had  created  a  tie  that  bound  us  together.  I  rejoiced 
on  arrival  to  learn  she  had  been  a  favourite  there  for  years,  and  in  her  position 
as  a  specially  prized  friend,  had  won  privileges,  as  well  as  the  undoubted  affection 
of  our  discerning  hostess.  I  found  her  growingly  congenial;  no  sentimentality 
and  little  apparent  sentiment,  but  everything  in  her  tended  to  quicken  percep- 
tion and  render  her  more  speculative  and  deliberate.  Her  depth  of  thought,  the 
workings  of  her  mind  showed  that  association  of  ideas  which  results  in  the  exer- 
cise of  reason  and  judgment.  She  never  gave  the  feeling  of  youth,  impulse,  or 
immaturity.  She  was  not  enthusiastic.  It  was  always  the  thinking  principle, 
head  not  heart.  She  was  so  constituted  that  the  intellectual  was  strongly  empha- 
sized and  the  emotional  seldom  brought  into  play;  at  least  it  did  not  come  to  the 
surface.  To  her  whatever  was  worth  attention  was  worth  profound  attention; 
intellectual  force  exercised  itself  in  every  sign  of  individuality.  She  was  in  a  sense 
agnostic,  but  no  one  could  dwell  near  without  seeing  and  feeling  her  splendid 
principle  and  aspirations  toward  a  higher  life. 

I  believed  her  brain  communed  with  knowledge  and  that  she  was  driven  with 
desire  to  know  more;  always  filled  with  the  restlessness  of  search  or  the  urge  of 
ambition.  Hers  seemed  to  be  a  super-excellence,  and  before  she  left  this  world, 
right  in  her  earliest  prime,  I  met  and  saw  a  good  deal  of  her  in  London,  four  years 
later. 

She  was  suffering,  and  disease  was  beginning  to  lay  her  youth  in  ruins.  I  had 
heard  she  was  ill,  but  I  was  shocked  at  the  change  and  suddenly  near  to  tears. 
She  saw  it  and  smiled  reassuringly — "Why  worry  about  me? — We  are  all  on  the 
same  road — one  early — another  late.  What  difference  in  the  end?"  Hers  was 
indeed  a  brave  and  gallant  spirit,  and  I  recognized  something  more  than  self 
control;  a  greatness  in  her  that  stirred  new  admiration  and  deeper  tenderness. 
I  learned  from  precious  confidences  how  she  had  always  worked  and  loved  with 
silent  but  passionate  energy.  After  all  the  glory  of  life  does  not  lie  in  its  length. 
And  one  thing  she  said  then  which  summed  up  her  whole  attitude  mental  and 
moral.  "We  must  cling  to  our  ideals  even  though  we  go  down  with  them.  Our 
dreams  are  whatever  our  lives  are  not.  Tell  me  your  life  and  I  will  tell  you  your 
dreams."  She  was  always  self  possessed,  calm,  courageous  and  steady-eyed, 
thinking  her  own  thoughts  and  something  in  my  soul  moved  its  wings  as  she  talked 
to  me  out  of  her  deepest  heart.  Once,  speaking  of  Evanston  and  some  early  mutual 
experiences  during  the  Foster  Presidency,  and  their  social  regime  there,  she  said 
something  that  was  her  farewell  and  it  echoes  today.  "Think  of  me  sometimes 
when  you  look  at  those  wonderful  lights  on  the  waters  of  your  Lake,  or  the  red 
sunsets  blazing  their  royal  road  across  those  Western  prairies.  Life?  Why  it  is 
Sunrise  and  Sunset — and  that  is  all  there  is." — 

At  that  unforgettable  House-party,  however,  of  which  I  write,  we  two  were 
the  only  ones  not  connected  by  close  family  ties,  but  no  one  could  feel  out  of 
touch  with  those  home  people.  It  was  a  house  brimming  with  hospitality  and 
unstinted  friendship  and  I  was  never  out  of  my  element  there.  I  felt  always 
connected  with  their  world,  although  the  various  elements,  common  elements 
with  which  we  all  have  share,  seemed  to  me  then  inconceivably  varied.  I  remember 
many  details  of  that  party,  for  soon  followed  the  War,  whose  "distant  drum" 
was  already  beating;  and  after  that  conflict  was  ended,  there  followed  nearly 
three  years  in  Europe  which  broke  up  many  old  associations  and  formed  many 


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new  ones.  But  now  from  a  certain  number  of  incidents,  bright  in  recollection, 
I  will  select  two  that  more  than  pleased  me  and  still  sit  softly  on  my  vanity. 

The  second  evening  after  my  arrival  my  Hostess  motioned  me  one  way  to  the 
bounteous  board  where  she  presided,  and  whispered  with  a  questioning  look — 
"I've  found  out  you're  sympathetic,  and  I'm  going  to  inflict  a  forlorn  young  man 
on  you  tonight.  It  happens  he  comes  occasionally,  and  I  make  him  welcome  to 
my  table;  but  he  is  in  a  sense  out  of  it;  that  is,  not  one  of  us,  and  he  has  lately 
become  a  butt  for  the  wit  of  my  girls  who  are  bored  to  death.  I've  interested  my- 
self enough  to  help  him  in  his  Mission  work,  and  Heaven  knows  he  needs  assistance. 
Do  give  him  a  decent  time."  And  before  I  could  assent  or  even  smile,  I  found  my- 
self seated  by  an  undersized,  very  tired  and  decidedly  shabby  looking  little  man. 
He  was  timid,  awkward  and  silent,  and  something  in  him  stuck  out  and  struck 
me  as  exaggerated  almost  to  the  confines  of  caricature.  There  was  no  modifying 
atmosphere  or  shadows;  everything  was  salient  and  sharp,  for  however  speechless, 
he  seemed  in  some  sense  violent;  so  savagely  uncomfortable  and  so  wholly  out 
of  touch  with  surroundings.  Peculiarities  of  appearance,  character  and  circum- 
stance stuck  out  all  over  him  and  appeared  to  knock  against  things.  He  tried  not 
to  seem  angry  and  not  so  aggressively  material,  but  always  and  definitely  so 
non-elastic  as  to  be  an  impossible  alien.  He  shocked  one's  sense  of  the  fitness  of 
things,  and  would  undoubtedly  have  suffered  an  access  of  amazed  regret  had  he 
realized  how  his  own  individuality  and  attitude  of  criticism  accounted  for  much 
ignoring,  for  grudging  antipathy  and  a  constantly  lessened  notice. 

He  misunderstood,  was  misunderstood,  and  suffered  proportionately.  He  was 
less  to  blame  than  they  could  believe  who  only  felt,  without  power  or  desire  to 
analyze,  his  strange  state  of  chaotic  tension,  and  the  fanaticism  of  extreme  ortho- 
doxy and  consequent  intolerance.  Mrs.  Kilbreth  in  her  kindness  and  strong- 
souled  sympathy  not  only  kept  him  under  observation;  but  proved  herself  a  bene- 
factress socially  as  well  as  financially.  Her  own  religious  convictions  and  spiritual 
generosity  of  vision  gave  her  a  broad  view  and  keen  interest  in  Missionary  labours 
and  labourers.  She  was  in  the  highest  sense  religious  and  against  her  own  faith 
and  deeds  there  could  be  no  invidious  presumption.  But  the  blindness  or  narrow- 
ness in  him  made  for  prejudice  and  a  morbidly  active  stubbornness.  He  knew 
nothing  of  the  bird-life  which  our  Hostess  lived,  his  eyes  were  upon  the  earth, 
hers  upon  the  stars!  The  projections  in  him  were  somehow  sent  out  whenever 
he  was  at  the  party,  and  those  incalculable  wireless  messages  of  antagonism, 
and  spiritual  disdain  acted  and  re-acted.  To  be  plain,  the  Rev.  Andrew  S.  Smith, 
was  inevitably  disliked  and  consequently  avoided.  And  behold!  My  role  assigned 
was  to  make  that  poor  creature  feel  at  home. 

I  was  aware  of  the  glances  of  amusement  and  playful  derision  cast  in  our 
direction,  which,  if  it  roused  some  inward  chagrin,  equally  determined  me  to  pull 
that  stick  out  of  his  deep-rooted  reluctance  to  play  the  game,  or  to  open  his  mind 
and  heart  to  gratify,  as  he  thought,  the  curiosity  of  such  hampered  and  despicably 
worldly  beings.  He  didn't  tantalize  mine,  nor  rouse  either  interest  or  curiosity 
for  a  moment.  The  point  was,  whether  I  could  allure  or  tempt  or  excite  any  desire 
for  less  turning  up  of  the  nose  or  seeing  spots  in  the  sun!  I  set  myself  the  task  of 
arousing  a  good  knife  and  fork  hunger  in  him  for  something  besides  the  edibles 
he  was  giving  such  undivided  attention  to — and  actually,  for  tidings  of  another 
Mission,  which  I  drew  in  picture  for  his  entertainment,  figuratively  his  mouth 
began  to  water.  I  told  in  lively  tones  all  about  Mr.  Kean's  remarkable  work  in 
that  Field,  and  enlarged  upon  the  School  in  Chicago  where  I  gained  much  personal 
experience,  I  assured  him,  as  I  had  taught  there  at  intervals  for  years. 

That  stirred  swift  response — "Do  you  mean  that  you — you  have  worked  in 
the  Mission  Field,  that  you  know  and  have  answered  to  its  sacred  calls  and  claims?" 
He  wavered — he  opened  out — he  finally  glowed,  and  he  had  a  kindling  quality 
that  assured  one  of  sincerity.  1  [e  talked  much  and  rapidly  of  his  work,  and  before 
we  rose  from  the  table  in  surprising  approach  to  enthusiasm,  he  "begged  my  con- 
sent to  visit  his  school,  if  he  could  extract  a  promise  from  Mrs.  Kilbreth  to  allow 
am!  arrange  for  it  the  following  Sunday  ". 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


And  sure  enough  she  quite  approved,  laughed  as  we  started  on  the  day  ap- 
pointed, and  said  merrily,  "Why  you  must  have  bewitched  him — that  poor  fellow; 
he  acted  daft,  hankering  with  an  eagerness  and  ardour  I  have  never  seen  him  mani- 
fest before.  Why!  he  was  almost  impetuous  in  his  appeal  to  bring  you.  Really 
to  arouse  breathless  impatience  in  Andrew  is  to  change  the  leopard's  spots!  You 
were  a  magnet,  and  he's  becoming  a  cormorant." 

It  was  uninteresting  and  a  very  old  story  to  me,  but  the  little  minister  was 
most  solicitous,  and  he  showed  such  delight  in  our  visit,  that  once  or  twice  he 
almost  lost  self-possession  in  his  anxiety  to  impress  us.  I  had  to  appear  responsive, 
but  I  had  to  calculate  my  Own  words  for  I  did  not  want  to  hurt  him,  or  to  let 
slip  by  inexactness  or  inattention  my  own  distaste.  I  felt  the  danger  of  being 
caught  napping  while  he  explained  and  emphasized  and  pointed  out  so  eagerly, 
but  Oh!  I  rejoiced  when  it  was  over,  and  I  did  not  let  the  grass  grow  under  our 
feet  after  the  hurried  good-bye,  as  in  spirit,  I  wanted  to  skip  and  jump  with  joy 
that  it  was  all  behind  us. 

Six  months  after,  the  Fall  of  that  same  year,  when  I  had  almost  forgotten 
his  name,  I  received  a  letter  with  no  apology,  explanation  or  single  reference  to 
make  clear  the  situation,  or  to  prepare  me  for  the  calm  assurance  of  his  tone,  and 
the  astonishing  proposition  that  he  made  with  such  gravity  and  confidence.  When 
I  looked  at  the  signature,  A.  S.  Smith,  it  actually  took  a  few  seconds  to  recall  and 
realize  the  identity  of  the  writer.  It  was  all  unbelievable,  and  I  am  ashamed  to 
admit  that  I  was  so  lacking  in  sympathy  and  understanding,  that  in  a  flash  of 
curious  indignation,  I  resented  what  never  once  suggested  itself  as  a  compliment. 

The  little  minister  assured  me  "that  he  would  never  have  dared  to  speak, 
if  he  had  not  laid  the  matter  repeatedly  before  the  Throne  of  Grace."  He  assured 
me,  "he  had  wrestled  with  the  Angel  of  The  Lord,  and  The  Lord  Himself  had 
finally  answered.  He  joyfully  believed  that  he  had  authority  from  on  High,  to 
ask  me  to  unite  my  life  with  his.  He  knew  that  we  could  serve  in  the  Vineyard 
very  happily  together.  He  had  no  doubt  of  my  great  qualifications  for  service 
and  self-sacrifice,"  and  said  finally — "that  he  awaited  my  full  comprehension 
of  his  faithful  devotion  and  the  wisdom  of  his  choice — Awaiting  a  hoped-for 
favourable  reply  to  his  faith  in  offering  me  heart  and  name,  he  was  ever,  Faith- 
fully mine,  A.  S.  Smith".  It  would  have  been  better,  I  thought  cruelly,  had  he 
signed  himself  simply,  A.  S.  SJ 

A  veritable  wave  of  indignant  surprise  swept  over  me  foolishly.  It  struck 
me  as  an  impertinence  rather  than  an  absurdity,  and  yet,  sincerity  it  must  have 
been.  I  am  humiliated  to  remember  that  I  saw  nothing  simple  and  sincere  in 
that  density  of  vision  and  I  scorned  what  was,  however  blind  and  stupid,  certainly 
intended  as  a  personal  tribute.  I  failed  in  kindness  as  well  as  appreciation.  I 
hastily  wrote  a  brief  curt  note  suggesting  the  wisdom  of  his  having  consulted  me 
before  he  had  wasted  so  many  prayers!  I  emphatically  declared  that  he  had  en- 
tirely mistaken  any  Divine  permission  to  address  me  in  that  fashion;  that  he 
was  evidently  not  privileged  to  receive  special  signs  from  Heaven,  and  I  herewith 
returned  his  letter. 

The  sense  of  humour  that  lasts  longest  and  heartiest  when  one  laughs  at  one- 
self, is  one  of  the  best  features  of  its  saving  grace.  They  say  that  very  few  men 
can  do  it  and  fewer  women;  but  one  who  can  learn  in  far  later  life  to  laugh  at 
oneself  can  afford  to,  and  that  power  came  to  me  at  last. 

When  we  returned  to  that  lively  group  that  Sunday  evening,  my  entrance 
to  the  drawing  room  was  the  signal  for  considerable  chaffing,  "How  is  Saint  An- 
drew? We'll  have  to  lock  the  doors  or  he'll  come  too  often,"  cried  one,  and  another 
piped  up,  "Oh,  it's  child's  play!  no  great  shakes  to  stir  up  that  nonentity,"  and 
immediately  the  sportive  ones  began  to  imitate  the  poor  young  minister,  which 
exhilirating  amusement  called  for  defense  of  the  absent  subject. 

"He  may  seem  stupid,  but  he's  good  at  bottom — he's  straight  and  he's  con- 
scientious." 

"Virtue  is  not  always  enticing,"  spoke  up  one. 

"Tweedle-dee  and  tweedle-dum,"  said  another. 


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"He's  not  only  unattractive,  he's  repellant — boorish — uncouth,"  cried  a  voice, 
and  against  the  laughter  I  tried  to  break  water — "Anyway  he's  consistent  and 
he's  anchored  to  something.  What  if  he  is  incompatible  here?  He's  no  simpleton 
even  if  he  is  clumsy,"  I  spluttered  on  with  unnecessary  vehemence. 

"A  fine  champion,  lucky  fellow!"  and  I  recognized  the  nature  of  the  gentle- 
man in  Jim  Kilbreth,  morally  and  physically,  his  clean  mind,  warm  spirit  and 
tender  heart.  He  was  so  kindly  and  easily  interested  that  he  always  seemed  to 
me  a  desirable  comrade.  He  was  a  treasure  of  manly  qualities,  strong  to  stubborn- 
ness where  his  emotions  were  concerned,  and  blind  and  deaf  he  proved  himself 
to  all  appeals  of  family  and  friends,  after  he  had  been  captured  by  one,  who  to 
them  all  seemed  a  Sorceress.  Alas!  that  his  fealty  was  yielded  to  one  superior  in 
years,  a  widow  with  several  children,  a  French  woman  in  whose  boarding  house 
this  beloved  son  and  brother,  with  two  or  three  other  fellows  of  his  class,  had  found 
shelter  for  a  certain  period.  And  fastidious  Jim  Kilbreth,  strangely  enough, 
succumbed  to  charms  that  no  one  else  could  ever  understand.  It  was  a  great 
tragedy  and  nearly  broke  his  Mother's  heart.  He  was  cut  off  from  the  family 
but  he  was  too  strong  in  mind  to  ever  be  wholly  downed;  he  suffered  terrible  dis- 
advantages in  the  lack  of  assistance,  as  well  as  in  his  full  knowledge  of  the  grief 
and  futile  rage  of  those  who  loved  him  best.  It  was  devotion  to  a  dream  that 
brought  such  sorrow  upon  them  all.  But  none  could  have  imagined  in  that  glory 
of  his  early  youth  that  he  would  have  to  fight  his  way  alone;  and  who  knows 
in  what  grief  and  despair;  to  ultimate  success  in  his  profession,  to  his  distinction 
and  the  popularity  attained  as  a  highly  respected  and  able  Judge. 

And  now  just  listen,  Children,  to  something  amazing  and  very  delightful  for 
me  to  have  heard,  after  sixty  years  of  ignorance  of  the  possibility  of  such  a  com- 
pliment. It  chanced  that  a  near  relative  of  that  family  I  had  not  seen  for  half  a 
century  called  upon  me  very  lately,  and  aproposof  our  reminiscences  astonished  and 
delighted  me  by  saying  that  the  beloved'  Mother  had  paid  me  the  highest  tribute 
a  Mother  could  after  my  return  home — confiding  to  her  sister,  the  Mother  of  the 
speaker,  her  secret  hope.  "I  fairly  coveted  that  girl  for  one  of  our  own.  I  had 
hoped  one  of  the  boys  would  have  recognized  and  won  her."  Heavens!  I  promptly 
forgot  my  fourscore  years  as  I  listened, and  I  began  to  wonder  myself  that  no 
one  there  had  yielded  to  my  fascinations!  And  why  on  earth  couldn't  Jim  Kilbreth 
have  taken  a  fancy  to  me?  I  didn't  know  his  Mother  would  have  liked  it,  but 
at  this  late  date  I  think  I  should!  So  you  see  eighty  years  doesn't  change  a  human 
being  so  much — at  least  it  doesn't  change  me. 

It  must  have  been  about  that  time  that  I  remember  and  someway  felt  that 
I  had  gained  favour  with  dear  Mrs.  Kilbreth.  I  mean  that  her  manner  and  warmth 
at  times  were  unmistakable,  and  I  recall  a  merry  little  incident  that  was  perhaps 
embarrassing  for  a  second,  but  in  a  sense  very  comforting  as  well  as  amusing. 

It  was  on  an  occasion  when  the  men  were  off  for  a  whole  day  and  evening, 
that  they  were  making  exceedingly  demonstrative  farewells,  and  Mrs.  Kilbreth 
said,  exchanging  amused  glances  with  us,  "We're  not  going  to  miss  you — Don't 
natter  yourselves,  I've  made  some  fine  plans."  At  this  the  young  men  became 
uproarious  in  further  declarations  and  embraces.  "Good-bye — Good-bye,  Aunt 
Mary,"  and  she  threw  her  arms  about  them  in  turn  with  genuine  and  open  af- 
fection. The  sight  someway  stirred  me  as  she  laughed  at  their  kisses — "Now 
that's  enough — Oh  go  away,  children" — and  in  a  sudden  heat  of  admiration,  I 
spoke  impetuously: 

"Oh!  I  wish  I  could  call  you  Aunt  Mary — "  and  instantly  her  quick  look  at 
me,  her  humorous  smile  and  gracious  wave  of  the  arm  pointed  to  and  included  the 
whole  group  of  sons  and  nephews,  as  she  answered  with  a  meaning  that  brought 
the  blood  from  heart  to  face,  "  You  can".  I  fell  the  blush  but  swiftly  took  in  the 
humour  of  it  all,  and  met  the  laughing  comments  of  the  quartette  with  flippant 
answers  to  their  mocking  appeals  for  me  to  choose!  They  were  all  so  jolly  and 
natural  and  in  all  their  pleasantries  or  satires  never  really  overstepped  the  mark. 

To  return  to  that  Sunday  evening,  after  all  their  raillery  about  my  \isit  to 
the   Mission   School  and   the  implied   devotion  of  the  young   Missionary.     There 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


was  a  caller  present  who  had  been  often  spoken  of  and  his  arrival  anticipated 
and  looked  forward  to  as  the  means  of  much  pleasure.  He  had  great  possessions, 
and  he  was  something  of  a  sportsman,  and  I  heard  a  strange  voice  ask, 
"Who  was  the  fortunate  chap  that  you've  been  placing  a  Foolscap  on?" — As  I 
heard  the  question,  I  noticed  a  man  who  rose  and  came  forward  to  be  introduced. 

Of  medium  height,  dark,  rather  good-looking,  but  not  comparable  to  the 
quartette  I  had  foregathered  with  for  days  under  that  roof.  He  wag  not  in  the 
least  ordinary,  and  I  noticed  immediately  the  correctness  of  his  dress.  He  was 
apparently  not  one  of  those  persons  who  feel  it  necessary  to  let  you  know  their 
importance  or  way  of  thinking.  That  popular  bachelor,  Mr.  Emery,  had  an  agree- 
able smile,  was  pleasant,  affable  and  plainly  fastidious.  I  had  caught  an  expression 
of  astonishment  or  amusement  when  I  met  his  eyes,  and  I  verily  believe  he  would 
hardly  ever  have  noticed  me  but  for  those  attacks  and  my  defense  of  the  absent 
young  clerical.  We  began  to  get  on  amazingly,  and  he  impressed  me  at  once  as 
unwilling  captive  to  conventions,  or  routine,  or  even  social  responsibilities.  I  did 
him  the  immediate  injustice  of  believing  human  interest  or  sympathies  would  be 
like  shadows,  remote  and  having  small  power  to  hold  him.  The  pallor  of  his 
countenance  was  peculiar,  upright  in  figure  but  not  of  robust  appearance,  his 
sallowness  indicated  what  his  fine  looking  body  denied,  that  he  was  not  strong. 
He  was  reported  influential  and  successful  and  must  have  created  for  himself 
some  special  interests  in  life.  I  wondered  what  they  were  outside  the  home  and 
possessions,  and  the  style  of  luxury  in  which  I  was  told  he  lived. 

Out  of  pure  mischief  afterward,  Mrs.  Kilbreth  whispered,  "You  shall  have 
the  most  eligible  parti  in  Cincinnati  tonight,  to  reward  you  for  martyring  your- 
self at  my  request  with  the  Rev.  Andrew,"  and  I  found  myself  at  supper  seated 
beside  the  guest  of  the  evening.  I  had  no  idea  I  was  deliberately  being  given  a 
chance  against  the  Queen-ship  of  beauty.  They  had  spoken  often  of  his  wonderful 
trap  and  horses,  and  I  was  well  aware  of  the  merry  wager  laid  as  to  which  of  the 
fair  nieces  would  ride  first  behind  the  famous  Tandem-team.  The  Kilbreth  cousins 
had  promised  five  pounds  of  candy  to  the  fair  one  who  secured  the  first  innings, 
and  in  any  case,  as  opinion  was  divided,  candy  enough  was  certain  for  the  winner 
and  loser  alike. 

There  was  no  cold  silence  at  the  Kilbreth  table,  no  dreary  pauses,  no  false 
notes;  lively  conversation  on  all  sides  and  more  or  less  superficial  brilliancy.  And 
that  special  evening  all  were  animated  and  a  trifle  watchful.  I  cannot  reproduce 
such  rosy  coloured  hours,  but  they  gave  a  sensation  of  good  luck.  When  Mr. 
Emery  politely  asked  me  "what  Mission  school  had  been  referred  to  with  such 
hilarity?"  The  conversation  began  rather  languidly  and  threatened  to  bore  us 
both.  I  felt  lack  of  real  interest  while  attempting  some  spirited  rejoinders,  and  I 
fortunately  changed  the  subject.  I  made  inquiries  as  to  his  late  European  trip, 
with  reference  to  my  own  limited  experience  of  travel  abroad. 

He  roused  when  I  added — "that  at  least  I'd  had  wide  experience  in  crossing 
on  a  sailing  vessel  instead  of  a  steamer."  He  loved  the  sea,  and  it  was  like  a 
flash  in  a  tinder-box,  as  interested  questions  and  answers  rapidly  followed  each 
other.  He  declared  "he'd  always  wanted  to  go  over  in  a  sailing  vessel,"  and  the 
talk  grew  fast  and  furious  in  mutual  picturing  of  life  at  sea. 

He  began  to  give  minute  attention  to  every  detail  of  my  description,  and  I 
experienced,  while  retailing  what  I  could  remember  that  was  diverting  or  laughter 
provoking,  an  extraordinary  lightness  of  head  and  spirit.  I  was  flushed  and 
elated  and  a  bit  physically  overwrought  as  Mr.  Emery's  manner  became  more 
intent  and  absorbed,  and  was  no  longer  the  unsteady  look  that  indicates  indif- 
ference. 

But  when  someone  interrupted  us  to  ask  for  further  description  of  my  exper- 
ience at  Mission  schools,  I  took  stock  of  myself  by  turning  a  deaf  ear,  and  declaring 
that  "I  wasn't  on  firm  ground  there,  as  they  themselves  had  shown  me  that  I 
couldn't  reckon  myself  a  judge  of  human  nature,  and  was  not  always  very  sensible 
in  my  conclusions."    I  noticed  a  change  in  my  table  companion,  and  that  without 


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any  idea  of  humour  in  the  situation,  he  was  quite  ready  to  play  upon  awakened 
sensibilities. 

I  relapsed  into  silence,  and  Florence  on  his  other  side  sparkled  enough  to 
bewilder  any  listener.  I  don't  know  precisely  how  it  happened — We  were  all 
merry  and  general  enough,  but  to  the  evident  enjoyment  of  sons  and  nephews, 
and,  bewilderment  at  the  note  of  admiration  in  his  closing  words  that  evening, 
I  heard  a  courteous  entreaty  for  me  to  drive  the  next  afternoon  behind  the  much 
discussed  Tandem  with  its  owner.  Mr.  Emery  assured  me  that  "It  would  give 
him  great  pleasure  to  show  me  the  far-famed  and  beautiful  suburbs  of  Cincinnati." 

"Nina  has  scored",  laughed  Florence,  as  the  hero  of  the  evening  made  his 
urbane  compliments  and  bowed  himself  out,  and  after  speeding  the  parting  guest, 
the  men  rushed  up  to  bow  and  scrape  and  pretend  to  doff  the  cap,  and  present 
arms  to  me! 

"A  ten  strike,  I  should  call  it,"  said  one,  and  "Gracious!  Goodness!  and  Mercy 
on  us,  can  such  things  be?"  It  was  killingly  funny  the  way  they  went  on,  with 
upturned  eyes  and  extended  arms;  "What  do  you  say  to  that?"  and  almost  choking 
with  laughter,  I  added  my  own  note,  and  joined  in  the  general  chorus,  "Dear 
me!  only  think!  Who  would  have  believed  it? — Where  am  I? — My  hair  is  standing 
on  end!"  "Good  sport,"  said  the  men,  "You  deserve  it,  he's  to  be  envied,"  and 
the  lovely  Matties  who  could  hold  court  anywhere,  and  counted  their  admirers 
by  the  score,  were  as  smilingly  sportive  as  the  others.  They  did  not  in  the  least 
mind  being  counted  out  for  once  on  an  invitation  which  they  could  easily  afford, 
without  missing,  in  their  socially  triumphant  course. 

So  it  did  chance  that,  under  delightful  conditions,  I  was  shown  a  beautiful 
country-side  and  wonderful  estates,  and  had  unforgettable  drives  with  that  agree- 
able companion.  Mr.  Emery  made  them  delightful  enough  to  remember  always 
with  satisfaction. 

Something  unusually  belligerent  in  the  Southern  Press,  or  some  suggested 
compromise  in  Northern  Journals,  had  excited  the  men  of  that  household.  It  was 
my  last  evening  with  them,  and  I  can  well  recall  the  talk,  unquiet,  agitated,  an 
almost  inflamed  talk.  It  gave  me  the  first  startled  suggestion  of  impending  trouble 
in  the  body  politic.  If  not  always  the  exact  words,  their  full  import  and  substance 
returns  clearly.  I  was  to  leave  for  home  the  next  morning,  and  in  the  light  of  after 
events,  I  was  long  to  remember  what  I  heard  there. 

It  chanced  that  young  Longworth,  who  dropped  in  often,  another  of  Jim 
Kilbreth's  class  mates,  and  Mr.  Emery,  were  among  the  callers.  Our  own  quartette 
of  men  had  flung  out  personal  and  prideful  challenge,  when  the  contention  in 
Congress,  the  bitterness  of  Southern  opposition,  and  widely  varying  view  points, 
were  being  discussed.  "How  could  a  few  States  question  the  superiority  or  right 
of  the  majority  to  rule?" 

One  instantly  felt  the  sharp  criticism  in  their  attitude  of  resentment,  and  in 
the  heat  of  their  indignation,  my  astonished  ears  for  the  first  time  heard  the  word — 
"War" — actually  spoken  of  as  possible  and  very  probably  the  only  settlement 
for  the  disgruntled  South.  "I  grant  that  if  War  comes,  the  North  will  fling  every- 
thing into  the  fight,"  said  one  of  our  visitors  quietly,  "but  it  is  an  unbelievable 
state  of  things,  the  very  idea  of  conflict  between  different  parts  of  one  Country." 
"One  thing  I'll  swear — we'll  shoot  like  Hell  when  we've  learned  our  bearings,  and 
the  drum  is  tapped,"  interrupted  one  of  our  martial  twins. 

Patriotism  as  they  expressed  it  seemed  suddenly  more  than  a  sentiment; 
flung  out  in  the  hot  words  of  those  young  men,  it  was  ethical  as  well  as  emotional. 
It  was  a  pledge  of  the  Union,  of  stability  and  the  impossibility  of  division.  "It 
is  hideous  to  think  of  Secession — they  can't  break  the-  Union — Rebellion  is  in- 
credible." "Perhaps  they  can't,"  snapped  a  voice  above  that  declaration,  "but 
they  can  threaten,  and  they  keep  finding  new  and  constant  causes  ot  complaint. 
\\ '■  were  blind  to  their  actions  and  insolenl  efforts  to  prevent  Lincoln's  Inaugura- 
tion, and  they  are  blinded  by  passions  and  raging  at  defeat.  They  are  out  oi 
touch  will:  their  own  Country."     "We  are  Democrats  here,"  said  another,  "and 


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I  suppose  no  one  voted  for  Lincoln,  we  didn't  want  him,  but  that  we've  got  to 
endure." 

"And  he'll  need  a  heart  of  steel  and  will  of  iron  to  carry  on  the  outrage  of 
Civil  War,"  spoke  up  Florence  Foster.  "My  Father  is  a  Virginian  by  birth,  and 
his  sympathies  are  not  with  the  present  Government.  We  don't  at  all  agree  on 
this  question — he  thinks  the  attitude  of  the  South  natural;  natural  or  not,  I  say 
it  is  wrong.  They  have  always  dominated,  they  have  always  had  Leaders,  they 
have  always  ruled,  and  they  think  they  possess  the  land.  The  whole  situation 
is  not  without  pathos;  but  they  are  overdoing  independence.  I  told  my  Father 
it  would  be  "Onward  Christian  Soldier"  with  a  vengeance;  no  mistake  about 
what  is  inevitable  unless  a  change  of  heart  ensues.  The  South  will  have  to  submit, 
but  they  won't  do  it  without  a  struggle.  It's  a  bitter  cup  for  them,  and  they'll 
kick  it  over  before  they'll  drink." 

"Their  attitude  of  national  supremacy  is  maddening,"  answered  Will  Kilbreth. 
"Indeed  I  think  it  has  lasted  long  enough,"  he  continued,  "Self  preservation  is 
the  first  most  righteous  law  of  a  Nation's  life."  "I  could  wish  we  had  a  better 
Pilot  in  command  of  our  Ship  of  State  with  such  storms  brewing,"  added  one  of 
the  callers.  "And  I  should  think  so,"  interrupted  a  young  fire-brand,  "That 
rail-splitter;  typical  coarse  Western  product — ignorant  as  he  is  awkward.  I  saw 
him  at  the  Inauguration  last  month,  speech  sounded  well,  but  I  bet  it  was  written 
for  him.  He  is  palpably  inexperienced,  he's  terribly  ungainly,  and  what  can 
such  a  man  do  to  hush  all  this  clamour?" 

Although  I  knew  no  marching  tune,  no  Battle  song,  some  unexpected  chord 
throbbed,  and  I,  too,  heard  the  distant  drum,  and  I  spoke  up  impetuously,  my 
heart  leaping  into  my  mouth.  "Mr.  Lincoln  has  a  fine  record  already,  didn't 
he  down  Douglas?  And  he's  not  ignorant  nor  inexperienced.  My  Father  says 
he  has  qualities  of  judgment  and  firmness  of  character  that  prove  wisdom  in  a 
tight  place,  and  no  one  doubts  his  self-control  and  probity.  The  people  of  Illinois 
believe  he  has  Statesmanship  too,  anyhow  we  all  have  faith  in  him.  He'll  stand 
up  straight  in  the  face  of  opposition.  Of  course  he  wrote  his  own  speech,  how 
ridiculous!  I  can't  bear  to  hear  him  belittled.  He  was  nominated  by  acclamation, 
and  I  lost  the  sight  of  a  life  time  in  not  being  with  my  Father  at  the  Wigwam. 
Oh  yes!  He  may  lack  polish,  but  he's  powerful  and  he's  honest,  and  his  Party 
believes  that  they  have  found  the  man  for  the  place." 

I  saw  serious  faces  as  I  expressed  my  immature  but  grave  convictions.  That 
talk  of  War  was  preposterous,  but  the  insolence  of  speech  in  Congress,  the  haughty 
rebellion  against  the  right  to  have  Mr.  Lincoln  as  President,  when  he  was  the 
choice  of  the  majority,  ought  to  be  silenced  at  any  cost.  "It  ought  to  be  stamped 
out,"  I  ended  with  heat.  "It  will  be."  I  heard  in  Jim  Kilbreth's  clear  accents. 
He  had  always,  when  he  spoke,  a  great  deal  of  magnetism.  He  was  eloquent 
when  at  all  moved  and  in  some  way  judicial  even  then.  The  kindness  he  had 
invariably  shown  me,  was  magnetism  in  itself.  "Well  if  it  ever  really  becomes  a 
question  of  Union,"  spoke  up  some  one  gravely,  "we  certainly  can't  safely  differ; 
we'll  have  to  go  for  them,  and  they'll  get  whipped." 

That  second  all  was  silenced  by  Mrs.  Kilbreth's  quick  objections.  "I  don't 
understand  all  this  excitement — this  talk — What  is  it  all  about,  or  why  has  it 
come  up?  You  are  unsheathing  swords  with  no  call  to  arms — all  this  boasting 
and  drum-beating  for  nothing!  You  young  men  have  more  the  metal  of  warriors 
than  of  peaceful  and  useful  citizens.  Do  turn  about,  and  forget  political  differences, 
they'll  smooth  themselves  out.  Unseemly  threats  sound  foolish,  and  it's  un- 
necessary turbulence;  such  disputes  are  uncalled  for.  Who  cares  how  we  voted? 
Lincoln's  in,  and  he's  got  to  be  supported,  nobody  really  dreams  of  breaking 
down  the  Government;  dancing  and  music  is  a  far  better  occupation  than  all 
this  idle  talk  of  brothers  fighting  brothers.  Heaven  grant  we  may  never  live  to 
see  such  horrors." 

Wind  and  play — and  wind  of  War!  The  change  in  the  atmosphere  was  in- 
stantaneous. 

In  that  household  all  were  young  and  attractive.     Ah!     Little  they  dreamed 


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of  what  was  so  close  at  hand — that  the  pictures  they  had  drawn  were  far  less  lurid 
than  the  immediate  reality.  Those  light-hearted,  care-fee,  well-bred  contented 
people,  who  were  so  soon  to  be  subjected  to  severe  tests  and  to  bear  no  small 
part  of  the  strain  and  sting  of  War.  And  as  we  turned  to  light  interchange  and 
enjoyment  of  the  hour,  pleasantries,  all  seemingly  safe,  all  panoplied  and  pam- 
pered with  prosperity,  who  could  imagine  they  would  be  called  to  prove  their 
own  words;  and  so  to  prove  that  creature  indulgences  cannot  make  cowards  and 
laggards,  and  never  traitors  to  their  convictions,  when  there  is  the  underlying 
granite  of  character  and  loyalty.  They  were  Simon-Pure  Americans  through 
and  through,  and  the  first  drum-beat  that  called  on  Patriotism  and  self-sacrifice 
was  answered  without  any  pause  for  personal  comfort,  or  thought  of  personal 
safety. 

The  atmosphere  of  that  House-party  left  its  ineradicable  mark  by  awakened 
desires  to  be  liked;  by  opening  new  doors  to  new  friendships;  by  increasing  familiar- 
ity with  social  usages;  by  widened  views,  and  enlarging  acquaintance  with  or 
knowledge  of  our  time,  as  all  adventuring  into  new  fields  is  bound  to  do. 

And  that  week  the  sun  shone,  the  birds  sang,  the  flowers  cast  their  fragrance 
on  the  smoke-laden  air  and  it  was  as  if  we  all  knew  that  there  was  naught  in  the 
world  save  happiness.  The  beauty  of  those  days  before  the  War,  thank  God! 
continued  to  touch  my  soul.  Their  morning  bloom  is  not  wholly  lost.  It  differs 
each  day;  but  memory  continues  to  enrapture  me. 

I  am  taking  a  bath  of  Girlhood.  It  is  delicious  and  gives  a  sensation  of  fresh 
life.  I  forget  present  reality,  and  even  intervening  years,  as  I  write.  I  still  find 
and  feel  in  myself  those  ardent  youthful  impulses.  But  I  realize  now  the  brief 
duration — the  duration  of  all  exquisite  things.  Yet  have  I  determined  to  take  to 
the  end  my  capacity  for  enjoyment,  and  in  this  mysterious  process  of  recall  and 
reaction,  this  work  I  am  doing  for  you,  my  Children,  I  gain  refreshment. 

When  we  are  young  we  dream  our  dreams.  When  we  are  old  we  philosophize 
about  them.  It  is  a  privilege  age  covets  to  show  and  share  joys  and  sorrows, 
hopes  and  dreams,  even  the  disillusions  known  to  its  experience.  Oh!  if  the  young 
would  care  to  listen,  would  once  understand  the  old  who  have  not  forgotten  "Where 
the  brook  and  river  met,"  it  would  indeed  ease  and  illumine  the  shadowed  years 
of  those  who  are  soon  to  leave  us. 

Listen  my  dear  ones,  for  Time  passes  now  like  the  wink  of  an  eye! 

THE    ANSWERING    SWORDS 

Well  I  remember  that  as  we  neared  Chicago  after  the  week  in  Cincinnati, 
March  in  its  last  days  was  still  like  A-Iay.  It  was  a  sort  of  clear  expressive  sunlit 
loveliness.  Spring  was  in  the  air,  spring  that  was  to  make  the  summer — and  there 
seemed  a  breathing  witching  presence  everywhere.  There  was  no  sorcery — no 
threats— no  peril  anywhere — nothing  to  remind  one  that  sharpening  swords,  des- 
perate battles  and  driving  storms  were  close  at  hand.  Nature  breathed  her  mystic 
perfume  and  heady  wine  into  us,  and  all  seemed  softening  and  sweetening  as  one 
looked  lightly  or  watched  keenly  that  ever  shifting  loveliness  of  earth's  panorama. 

And  Oh!  to  see  again  the  silvery  blue  surface  of  the  Lake,  sparkling  and  beauti- 
ful beyond  measure.  And  when  I  was  anchored  again  in  the  home  harbour, 
prompted  by  sympathetic  interest  to  enthusiastic  recitals  of  gratifying  experi- 
ences, the  mental  glow  became  physical.  It  whetted  all  enjoyment  and  gave  a 
sort  of  witchery  to  recollection.  I  certainly  did  my  best  to  lend  colour  and  reality 
to  accounts  of  the  Kildreth  household  and  their  persuasive  attractiveness — 
"Honeyed  words" — Father  interpolated  laughingly — "Joyful  face  and  sparkling 
words  are  easy  to  captivate."  "But — Oh  Father!  it  was  easy  to  hug  oneself, 
living  in  clover!" 

Among  letters  and  cards  and  invitations  waiting,  that  put  me  into  immediate 
contact  with  our  small  outer  world,  was  one  I  thoughl  very  beautiful.  The  writer, 
cold  and  clever  and  remote  for  long,  had  grown  amazingly  generous  and  gentle, 
always  making  mc  feci  her  regard  as  a  new  income  of  treasure.    She  had  begun 

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a  charming  and  characteristic  note  received  in  Cincinnati — "Dear  Butterfly," 
and  to  my  protest  at  the  name,  declaring  in  answer  that  I  was  not  always  as  light 
and  shallow  as  I  might  seem,  and  that  "Butterflies  never  were  cross  or  had  colds," 
the  graceful  response,  playful  and  humourous,  and  in  the  most  delicate  way 
reminiscent  and  suggestive,  signalized  her  own  dainty  fancy  and  sensitive  spirit. 

It  could  not  enshrine  me  because  I  did  not  deserve  it.  I  had  cut  a  sorry  figure 
with  her  at  first  and  discredited  myself,  so  that  I  could  not  be  vain  now  in  shining 
forth  a  figure  that  had  acquired  honour  in  her  golden  opinion.  It  did  not  exalt 
me  at  all — but  Oh!  I  was  delighted  as  I  read — "Inappropriateness  in  the  name 
of  Butterfly  I  find  none;  a  little  poetic  license  must  unquestionably  be  allowed, 
to  debar  you  from  enquiring  too  carefully  into  the  perfect  exactness  of  the  re- 
semblance between  yourself  and  the  airy  type  of  immortality!  Perhaps  they 
don't  take  'colds' — granted — I  saw  one  last  Wednesday  morning,  as  I  went  into 
town,  that  did  not  intend  to  take  cold  if  exercise  would  prevent  it.  Through 
the  dull  and  sunless  air,  dividing  the  murky  dun  and  grey  clouds  of  coal-smoke 
puffing  from  our  engine,  holding  its  way  even  against  cold  currents,  making  it 
waver  sideways  but  not  checking  its  steady  upward  motion,  it  went  on  as  long 
as  I  could  see  it;  impatient  of  the  mist,  trying  to  reach  a  sunbeam  no  doubt,  and 
spread  its  microscopic  feathers  and  Ethereal  gold  to  dry  in  it;  /  was  thinking  of 
a  girl  I  knew  in  Chicago.''''  And  why  there  was  such  active  grace  in  her  idealiza- 
tion, forces  me  to  tell  what  it  will  always  humiliate  me  to  look  back  upon. 

The  teacher,  Miss  McClintock,  whose  regard  I  won  last  year;  whom,  when 
back  from  New  York,  I  had  first  treated  to  an  exhibition  of  impatience  and  snob- 
bishness that  was  inexcusable.  I  am  ashamed  to  remember  how  I  misinterpreted 
and  repelled  her  by  rudeness  and  lack  of  discernment  for  she  treats  me  now  as  if 
I  were  a  clever  lovable  child,  and  there  is  the  true  ring  of  sincerity  and  affection 
in  words  and  look.  What  that  first  unfortunate  interview  lost  me,  and  what 
afterward  I  sought  so  long  to  win  back,  took  my  best  weapons  and  the  best  front 
of  courtesy  I  could  assume  whenever  with  her.  The  evident  estimate,  the  dis- 
taste that  seemed  aversion  was  a  reproach,  an  invitation  that  I  had  challenged 
and  had  to  suffer  in  consequence.  I  was  taken  down  a  peg  or  two,  and  constantly 
disconcerted  with  what  I  exposed  myself  to  whenever  I  made  the  slightest  advance. 

It  all  happened  that  first  Sunday  when  Mr.  Kean  sent  an  old  ramshackle 
hack,  to  take  me  over  to  his  Mission.  He  had  written  a  note  of  welcome  home 
and  regretted  he  could  not  call  for  me  as  usual.  I  remember  I  hated  the  whole 
idea  anyway,  and  I  hated  going  back  to  such  sordidness  and  commonness,  such 
a  step  down  from  New  York  associations  and  the  gay  surroundings  and  ease  and 
luxury  at  the  Sims.  I  know  I  was  horribly  uncomfortable  and  willfully  incon- 
siderate of  everything  and  everyone,  as  I  donned  the  well-worn  suit  set  aside  for 
that  place  and  that  sort  of  work.  Mr.  Keane's  letter  "entreated  me  to  take  hold 
of  the  Plough  again  without  delay — the  Field  demanded  Labourers,  the  Harvest 
always  waiting,  and  a  class  ready  for  me.  He  needed  me  sadly,  The  Lord's  Work 
was  waiting  for  my  hand,  head  and  heart."  I  hadn't  the  courage  to  tell  him  that 
I  was  dead  tired  of  it  all.  I  knew  he'd  look  at  me  with  sorrowful  eyes,  think  I  was 
a  lost  soul  who  had  gone  down  by  the  cold  streams  of  Babylon,  which  I  certainly 
had  if  backsliding  was  synonymous.  And  so  I  got  ready  for  the  fray,  that  Sunday 
afternoon,  in  a  nasty,  hard,  selfish  spirit,  ready  to  show  discourtesy  to  the  first 
object  that  presented  itself. 

When  I  climbed  into  that  worn-out  looking  vehicle,  wheels  all  caked  with 
mud,  driver  slouched,  and  dirty  horses  thin  and  half-starved,  I  fairly  recoiled. 
On  the  high-backed  seat  sat  a  stiff  tall  severe  looking  woman  in  shabby  black, 
for  whom  I  felt  an  instant  antagonism.  My  ugly  spirit  immediately  found  a  vent. 
She  must  have  realized  antipathy,  for  she  had  not  even  given  me  a  conventional 
greeting  or  a  smile.  It  was  hardly  the  most  distant  nod,  which  I  returned  in  one 
stiffer,  if  possible,  with  the  remark,  "Certainly  this  is  about  the  most  miserable 
conveyance  I  ever  saw,  not  fit  for  respectability  to  drive  in."  Her  countenance 
looked  forbidding,  and  at  absence  of  all  response,  I  continued  haughtily,  "But 
perhaps  it  suits  the  Cause  or  the  place  we  are  going." 


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She  gave  me  a  frigid  stare  and  remarked  drily,  "In  my  opinion  any  sort  of 
conveyance  is  more  than  the  unappreciative  deserve,  and  most  of  the  people,  who 
merit  far  better,  have  none  at  all." 

Neither  spoke  again  until  Mr.  Kean  meeting  us  at  the  Mission  entrance, 
"Hoped  we'd  had  a  comfortable  drive?"  "Very  uncomfortable,"  I  shot  forth 
icily,  as  my  companion  alighted  without  a  backward  glance  or  word  to  the  Super- 
intendent. "Very  disagreeable,"  I  repeated,  indicating  with  a  shrug  her  rapidly 
retreating  figure.  "You  will  have  to  drive  me  home,"  in  answer  to  his  markedly 
warm  greeting.  "Of  course  I  counted  on  that,"  was  his  instant  and  significant 
rejoinder,  which  my  question  fretfully  ignored — "Who  is  she  anyway?" 

"That's  Marion  McClintock,"  and  the  last  name  by  force  of  contrast  made 
me  smile,  as  I  conjured  up  Gussie's  slim  elegance,  haughty  grace  and  the  unfor- 
gettable distinction  and  serenity  of  her  farewell  to  me,  when  I  left  Paris  in  such 
humiliation  and  disappointment. 

That  picture  arose  and  stood  beside  me  as  he  continued.  "Why!  she's  a  Pub- 
lic School  teacher,  very  religious,  very  capable,  Scotch,  rigidly  conscientious  and 
a  great  "find"  for  me.  She  is  loyal  to  the  school  and  whoever  and  whatever 
else  she  cares  for.  They  say  she  nearly  supports  her  Parents,  and  they  are  all 
poor  but  an  awfully  proud  set.  Did  you  notice  those  few  flowers  she  carried? 
The  little  ones  of  the  infant  class  she  handles  splendidly  and  they  are  getting 
crazy  about  her.  Someone  said  she  had  window-boxes,  and  a  little  patch  of  ground 
she  tried  to  make  bloom,  she  loves  flowers  so  passionately." 

Something  rushed  over  me.  The  essence  of  beauty  worship  is  among  flowers 
and  trees,  blossoms  and  birds,  birds  and  butterflies,  in  fields  and  meadows  and 
mountains  and  lakes,  and  in  all  the  poem  pictures  of  the  sky.  The  more  I  thought 
of  it  after  I  got  home,  the  worse  I  felt.  And  when  I  heard  Father's  beautiful 
voice  singing  some  of  the  grand  sweet  old  hymns  he  loves,  as  he  often  does  Sunday 
evening,  I  realized  a  loveliness  of  soul  in  him,  that  was  full  of  the  beauty  of  holi- 
ness, sanctified  by  a  salvation  that  uplifted. 

In  my  Father  was  constantly  manifest  a  gentleness  and  patience  that  spoke 
of  kindness  toward  all,  as  well  as  the  steadfast  relying,  immovable  faith  that 
is  lent  to  the  faithful  for  every  extremity.  It  is  strange,  but  it  is  not  in  the  brim- 
ming melody,  or  swinging  rhythm,  or  any  fantastic  convolutions  of  sound  that  I 
feel  the  religious  appeal.  It  is  in  Father's  voice,  far  more  than  in  the  Hymn  suited 
to  worship  or  peculiar  to  his  character  and  belief:  more  after  all,  than  in  any  of 
the  glorified  chants  of  the  Church,  is  the  swift  response  to  his  character  and  speech, 
the  lesson  of  his  every-day  life.  "  Sweetness  and  Light "  in  harmonious  consistency, 
and  someway  it  seemed  presented  and  was  ennobled  in  Father's  voice.  No  wonder 
everyone  loves  to  hear  him  sing  in  Church,  where  those  tones  ring  out,  leading 
the  congregation. 

That  last  moment  when  Mr.  Kean  gathered  up  the  reins,  smiling  down  happily 
on  me,  and  I  saw  my  scornfully  silent  companion  climb,  with  two  others,  into 
the  old  turn-out,  still  haunted  me.  I  had  vented  intolerance  and  bad  temper  on 
an  unoffending  stranger,  and  added  fuel  to  the  flame  by  a  direct  affront.  And  I 
had  begun  to  repent  as  we  drove  home,  asking  questions  and  learning  of  her  un- 
selfish service,  coming  so  far  Sundays  and  working  so  hard  week-days,  which 
proved  intrinsic  quality  and  gifts  that  demanded  the  courtesy  of  recognition. 

"I'm  awfully  hasty,"  I  said  to  Mr.  Kean,  "But  I  do  get  sorry  very  soon. 
Do  you  think  she'll  ever  like  me?"  "I  don't  see  how  any  one  can  help  it,"  was 
his  hasty  retort,  and  I  felt  some  warmth  of  confidence  steal  about  my  heart. 

After  that  I  never  wondered  at  Miss  McClintock's  evident  distaste  and  stern 
attitude  of  avoidance — but  I  hated  to  be  so  disliked — I  could  not  get  away  from 
the  hope  of  breaking  down  her  active  dislike.  Usually,  I  thought,  everybody 
ought  to  like  me — Why  not?  I  liked  everybody  pretty  well!  There  was  good 
reason  for  her  antipathy  I  knew,  but  I  was  ashamed  to  have  given  such  good 
cause,  and  more  and  more  I  wanted  to  overcome  it  and  gain  some  measure  ol  her 
good  opinion. 

She  was  keen  willed  and  seemed  what   the}-  call  "dour"  and  anti-social,  yet 


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I  was  convinced  of  her  superiority  of  intellect,  and  no  matter  what  I  had  drawn 
down,  I  wanted  her  to  know  that  I  was  sorry  and  didn't  feel  repellant  and  self- 
sufficient  all  the  time.  I  was  up  against  it  for  a  long  time  but  I  wouldn't  give 
up,  and  I  wondered  what  I  could  do  when  smiling  and  soft  speech  had  no  effect? 

I  had  realized  from  observation  and  hearsay  how  intense  was  that  silent  woman's 
love  of  beauty,  and  how  carefully  she  tended  her  few  plants  and  cultivated  all 
she  could  in  that  little  patch  of  ground  by  her  home  in  the  suburbs.  Suddenly 
I  laughed  with  pleasure,  as  there  flashed  upon  me  the  picture  of  the  little  shop 
whose  dusty  windows  were  brightened  with  the  season's  blossoms.  It  was  sand- 
wiched in  between  a  grocer's  shop  and  Mr.  Nolan's  Jewelry  and  watch  repairing 
place.  I  passed  it  daily,  and  why  had  the  suggestion  never  come  before?  I  walked 
to  the  place,  determination  fighting  sentiment  and  all  doubt  as  to  wisdom  or 
tact  absent  from  my  satisfied  mind.  I  left  an  order  with  the  Florist  for  a  box 
of  flowers  to  be  sent,  without  card,  every  week  to  her  address  until  further  orders, 
and  felt  the  action  was  as  profoundly  original  as  significant!  I  remember  my 
own  delight  as  I  thought  of  her  surprise. 

It  was  like  coldness  melting  when  she  finally  taxed  me  with  it,  calling  it  dis- 
tinct extravagance;  but  with  a  look  that  changed  her  whole  countenance.  I  felt 
the  blood  rush  from  heart  to  face  as  I  held  out  my  hand.  "Please  forget  rudeness, 
please  believe  that  I  love  some  of  the  things  you  do."  It  had  begun  to  seem  to 
me  more  than  I  knew  how  to  carry,  a  friendship  greatly  on  one  side  without  due 
correspondence  on  the  other,  and  certainly  I  was  on  the  road  to  learning  what 
has  helped  me  in  all  my  later  life,  that  the  only  way  to  have  a  friend,  is  to  be  one. 

Emerson  said,  I  remember,  "That  when  one  becomes  dear  to  us,  we  had  touched 
the  goal  of  fortune,"  or  to  that  effect,  but  that  "he  is  only  fit  for  the  alliance  who 
is  magnanimous."  From  that  hour  over  the  flowers,  the  change  in  manner  and 
look  and  greeting  became  warming  and  winning.  I  called  on  her  once  when  in 
that  vicinity.  We  were  driving  with  my  Uncle  Paul  Cornell  (Aunt  Helen's  hus- 
band) who  in  real  estate  ventures  owned  property  far  South  and  wanted  to  show 
Father  the  Site  of  his  proposed  town. 

She  was  not  yet  home  when  he  stopped  at  my  request,  so  while  they  drove 
off  for  investigation,  I  sat  down  in  the  little  room  to  await  her  return  from  school. 
It  was  chilly  I  remember,  and  it  seemed  a  long  time  before  the  door  opened  and 
she  stood  on  the  threshold.  "Fom",  she  said — and  looked  silently  at  me  for  a 
full  second  without  further  greeting,  but  a  swift  change  and  a  warm  coming  for- 
ward relieved  me  from  embarrassment.  I  had  succeeded,  I  had  given  her  assur- 
ance of  appreciation  and  regard,  and  she  accepted  my  invitation  to  Lunch. 

It  was  lovely  in  my  own  upper  chamber  overlooking  the  Lake,  where  Mother's 
thoughtfulness  and  delicacy  had  arranged  and  sent  up  a  carefully  planned  little 
luncheon,  that  we  might  have  our  hour  alone  together. 

It  became  a  sun  warming  atmosphere  of  companionship,  melting  the  ice  of 
her  natural  manner,  and  soon  a  relation  was  quickened  and  cemented  that  was 
finally  equally  welcome  to  both.  She  was  one  under  her  shell-complex — hyper 
sensitive — mentally  so  superior  that  I  felt  justly  proud  to  have  gained  her  friend- 
ship. I  could  see  my  natural  heritage  of  health  and  high  spirits  amazed  her  at 
first.  Once  she  put  it  in  a  sentence  of  comment  rather  than  criticism  when  she 
smiled  over  something  I  had  recounted — "A  conquering  manner  does  not  neces- 
sarily mean  conquest."  She  had  spoken  apparently  out  of  the  depths  of  heart 
knowledge.  She  had  a  faith  in  the  Unseen,  ageless  and  deathless,  that  gave  her 
a  sort  of  radiance  as  she  talked. 

And  this  was  the  woman  I  had  thought  hard,  passionless  and  dominant,  who 
gave  me  back  such  largesse  of  confidence  and  cordiality  that  took  me  on  trust 
forever.  And  now  how  that  letter  rated  me  beyond  desert  in  its  fineness  of  approval 
and  delicacy  of  sentiment! 

Miss  McClintock,  I  found  was  deeply  sensitive,  while  so  constituted  as  to 
emphasize  the  intellectual  and  not  the  emotional  in  her;  but  whatever  was  worth 
attention  was  worth  profound  attention,  and  thereafter  she  never  let  me  miss  a 
smile,  speaking  so  gently  and  seeming  amused,  treating  me  as  if  I  were  an  ingenuous 


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child.  I  was  impressed  with  her  knowledge  of  the  hard  side  of  life  far  beyond 
what  I  had  ever  measured  or  understood.  And  it  was  this  clever,  and  seemingly 
cold,  woman  who  had  in  such  exquisiteness  of  suggestion  called  me  "Butterfly", 
and  explained  her  reasons.  Verily!  verily!  it  is  worth  any  effort  to  secure  in  this 
life  a  true  and  generous  friend. 

Enter  Elysabeth! — so  different,  equally  endowed,  and  yet  belonging  to 
a  wholly  different  world.  "Who  hears  me,  who  understands  me  becomes  mine," 
I  quoted  gaily  to  her  one  afternoon  about  that  time,  and  how  quickly  she  countered 
and  capped  with  words  from  the  same  Essay,  "The  good  spirit  of  our  life  has  no 
Heaven  which  is  the  price  of  rashness."  "Why  are  you  so  suddenly  steeped  in 
Emerson?" 

"Well,  I  read  aloud  with  Miss  McClintock  his  Essay  on  Friendship,  and  he 
says  'that  a  new  person,  is  to  him,  a  great  event',  but  on  the  same  page,  and  she 
had  occasion  to  call  my  attention  to  it,  'That  we  are  armed  all  over  with  sudden 
antagonisms  and  that  they  turn  all  poetry  into  stale  prose'."  Elysabeth  smiled 
cynically  at  my  late  enthusiasm  over  the  new  friend,  and  replied,  "One  thing 
don't  forget,  Nina,  in  your  hasty  pursuits,  that  Emerson  said,  'Love',  which  he 
calls  the  essence  of  God,  'is  not  for  liberty — but  for  the  total  worth  of  man'." 

Elysabeth  is  someway  well-tempered  in  her  thoughts  as  well  as  words,  where 
I  am  hot  and  impetuous  and  impatient.  I  shrank  a  bit  when  she  declared  with 
a  critical  glance,  that  she  "thought  so  much  more  of  my  heart  than  of  my  judg- 
ment", and  at  my  protest  added  coolly — "There's  no  doubt  your  nature  yields 
too  soon  to  the  sway  of  sound  and  feeling,"  which  rather  sharply  rebuked 
my  importance.  She  often  makes  me  feel  like  an  infant  compared  with  her  men- 
tally, and  is  wholly  unconscious  of  so  doing,  as  we  are  at  one  in  tastes  and  pur- 
suits educationally,  and  on  most  issues.  I  never  let  on  to  her  or  anyone  else  my 
sense  of  inferiority,  for  I  won't  show  it.  Why  should  I?  I  love  sometimes  to 
shock  her  by  some  sudden  outrageous  nonsense  of  gay  license  in  speech,  and  that 
time  I  declared  openly  that  she  must  admit  I  was  more  than  her  peer  when  it 
came  to  religious  feeling,  even  if  she  did  declare  that  emotions  led  me  astray. 

Then  she  talked  beautifully,  and  said  that  naturally  hope  was  the  parent  of 
my  faith,  and  that  my  home-sky  was  full  of  stars,  but  it  was  nothing  but  twilight 
all  about  most  people  anyway,  and  that  as  far  as  religions  went  they  were  often 
poor  help,  for  we  all  stumbled  in  the  dark  places  of  our  own  nature. 

Mercy!  she  was  profound  enough  and  I  guess  any  added  heresies  or  new  som- 
berness  of  view  had  something  to  do  with  our  "Dante"  readings;  or  more  par- 
ticularly Dr.  Bevan's  influence  and  guidance,  and  his  talks  and  talks  about  the 
problems  of  the  Universe.  He  is  often  so  wonderful  that  I  feel  like  crying  out  for 
pity  at  my  own  weak  head.  He  elaborates  thought;  he  has  such  captivating  ways 
too,  he  is  so  handsome,  and  such  a  marvel  physically  that  I  fairly  get  bewildered 
between  looking  and  listening!  I  don't  always  care  about  torturing  questions, 
but  I  adore  such  a  tall  splendid  looking  being,  and  I  forget  my  own  sublime  ig- 
norance in  a  growing  intensity  of  admiration  for  the  man. 

"Elysabeth,"  I  asked,  and  laughed  outright,  "Don't  you  think  he  has  eyes 
of  Sage,  Seer,  Prophet,  Teacher,  Friend  and  Lover? — and  isn't  his  hair  lovely, 
the  colour,  that  nice  little  wave,  and  the  way  it  grows  on  his  head?  I  believe 
Dr.  Bevan  is  the  handsomest  man  I  ever  saw — look  at  his  height,  and  the  way 
he  stands  and  moves — there's  distinction  for  you!  And  did  you  ever  notice  how 
his  eyes  smile  more  than  his  lips?"  "He  has  a  very  noble  head — I've  noticed 
that,"  she  interpolated  in  her  usual  calm  fashion.  "Yes,  and  the  brow  and  every- 
thing about  him  makes  him  look  what  he  is!  Oh  my!  If  he  hadn't  a  pretty  wife 
and  a  lot  of  children  I'd  like  to  marry  him." 

I  did  succeed  in  startling  her,  but  no  one  can  down  the  quickness  of  her  retorts. 

"If  he  hadn't  wife  and  children  competition  would  be  great,  and  he  probably 
wouldn't  want  to  marry  you." 

"I'd  do  my  best  to  make  him,"  and  with  mischievous  emphasis,  "Anyway 
he  likes  me  now,  he  told  me  so  tin-  evening  of  my  Birthday, referring  to  us  both," 
— ami  at    her  stare — "I  mean  when   I   deplored  witli  considerable  eloquence,  that 


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I  stood  no  chance  in  Scholarship  where  you  shine,  he  flattered  me  by  replying, 
'Well  the  stars  differ  in  magnitude',  so,  after  all,  don't  you  think  I'd  stand  a  chance 
if  only  he  were  free?  You  see  it's  my  fate  to  admire  married  men  most — There's 
Dr.  Sims  and  Dr.  Agnew — Yes — and  Emerson,  and  a  few  Lecturers  and  Pulpit- 
orators,  and  numberless  Actors  and  Writers — very  soul-stirring,  but  all  fatally 
bound  in  matrimonial  fetters." 

She  smiled  at  last — and,  "Oh  Nina!  you  ought  to  live  in  an  aureole! — a  radiant 
one  to  transmit  the  inspiration  it  receives!  You  have  more  sensations  and  fancies 
than  organs  of  thought.  But  they  will  wear. out,  for  that  can't  be  intended  to 
last,  lest  some  of  them  break  up  and  destroy  you."  "Oh  thanks!"  was  my  parting 
shot,  as  with  secret  complacency  I  responded,  "That  if  they  hadn't  any  philo- 
sophical value,  they  were  better  than  most  women's  speculations." 

Ah!  what  a  light  heart  I  carried  just  before  that  awful  conflict  shook  our  nation. 
I  had  not  seemed  to  care  or  understand  all  the  tumult  or  excitement  of  talk  going 
on  about  us.  Why  it  had  come — what  it  meant — why  it  must  stay?  It  is  so 
many,  so  many  years  ago,  and  I  was  a  very  impressionable  girl  that  had  never 
carried  a  single  burden.  Wind  of  War!  or  Wind  of  Play — it  was  all  a  distant  dramatic 
scene.  Certain  pictures  come  back  to  me,  and  my  mind  travels  back  to  reproduce 
them,  but  things  struggle  in  my  mind  with  dreams. 

Grandmother  Gray  had  come  for  one  of  her  long  visits  to  Mother,  and  later 
to  my  Aunts  Margaret,  Helen  and  Elizabeth,  all  in  lovely  homes  of  their  own, 
and  eager  to  welcome  the  stately  and  handsome  personage  of  whom  her  daughters 
were  so  proud.  She  didn't  seem  as  aloof  or  haughty  to  me  as  when  we  visited 
the  Homestead  where  she  presided  in  old-time  elegance.  Is  it  age  that  mellows 
or  hardens  according  to  the  sweetness  or  strength  of  nature?  Anyway  my  heart 
answered  now  to  her  smile  and  kindliness,  and  preparation  for  her  presence  and 
comfort  took  on  the  aspect  of  a  happy  event. 

One  evening  at  that  time,  just  after  an  early  supper,  I  had  a  memorable  sort 
of  drive  with  Father  and  Mother  and  Grandmother,  who  had  just  arrived.  The 
whole  varied  scene  on  the  Avenue,  people  and  children  walking,  and  all  sorts  of 
equipages  made  the  streets  seem  unusually  gay,  and  I  loved  the  kalidescopic 
moving  pictures  in  that  golden  sunset. 

Little  I  had  minded  the  sullen  threatenings,  the  rumbling  thunder  of  distant 
drums,  the  repeated  accounts  of  State  Secession,  which  appealed  as  utter  foolish- 
ness, and  was  like  a  childish  boastful  safety-valve  of  expression  that  meant  no 
real  peril,  or  that  there  were  any  real  breakers  ahead.  "Instability  of  our  Govern- 
ment," and  as  they  had  said  in  Cincinnati,  "could  not  be  jeopardized,  and  never 
could  hang  by  a  thread."  So  at  first  no  one  seemed  to  feel  the  ground  slipping 
from  under,  or  that  there  was  a  barrel  of  gunpowder  so  near  us.  Risks,  hazards, 
dangers,  clouds,  warnings — Who  really  feared  them  while  we  were  all  in  East  or 
West  sleeping  carelessly  over  a  Volcano?  And  that  mood  I  recall  particularly, 
and  what  followed  in  an  especially  amusing  experience,  because  it  was  the  last 
day  of  peace. 

When  Father,  on  our  return  route,  was  about  to  be  dropped  at  the  Church 
where  a  noted  Revivalist  was  to  hold  special  service,  he  looked  a  smiling  invita- 
tion— which  I  answered  quickly — "Yes,  yes,  if  you  want  me,  Father."  He  knew 
I  had  never  cared  for  "protracted"  meetings,  and  I  was  never  commanded  to 
attend  those  mid-winter  diversions,  for  neither  of  my  parents  had,  so  far,  ever 
insisted  on  my  going  anywhere  against  inclination.  I  had  consequently  slight 
experience  of  religious  excitements.  Mother's  calm  perfect  dignity  and  my  Father's 
good  judgment,  poise  and  natural  quiet,  made  a  sort  of  decorous  background, 
which  never  showed  arduous  or  fiery  flights  of  sanctimonious  imagination.  Coin- 
age of  the  brain  or  any  delirium  of  fancy  was  in  no  way  conceived  or  created 
before  me.  Romanticist  or  Rhapsodist  in  that  realm  was  a  complete  stranger, 
and  the  occurrence  that  evening  was  a  phenomenon  to  me  that  appealed  as  mo- 
mentary fine  frenzy,  with  no  effect  of  solemnity.  I  was  even  daring  enough  to 
mimic  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  when  I  recounted  the  incident  at  home,  but  I 
saw  that  my  laughter  was  rather  displeasing  to  my  serious  Grandmother. 


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Now  I  think  the  independence  allowed  me,  their  entire  confidence  that  I  meant 
no  wrong  and  could  be  trusted  in  all  honour,  was  wonderful  liberty  at  that  period. 
It  saved  me  from  all  revolt,  it  preserved  my  respect  for  the  belief  of  others,  and 
increased  reverence  for  what  was  dear  to  my  elders;  it  anchored  me  in  safe  waters, 
and  kept  me  near  the  beloved  parents  who  gave  me  so  free,  unhampered,  and 
privileged  a  girlhood.  Climaxes  of  expression,  flights  of  oratory,  and  even  ve- 
hemence of  appeal,  were  familiar  in  regular  Sunday  attendance,  where  the  Pulpit 
was  filled  by  able  and  eloquent  Preachers  and  Exhorters,  but  never  in  Church 
or  Sunday  school  had  there  seemed  anything  hysterical  or  common.  I  instinctively 
hated  noise  that  showed  absence  of  self-control.  It  was  like  ugliness  and  some- 
way swept  love  and  pity  out  of  me.  My  faculties  did  not  allow  me  to  grasp  things 
sufficiently  to  be  broad-minded  or  tolerant.  Inexperience  is  both  pathetic  and 
comic.  I  think  I  was  very  unkind  as  well  as  hasty  and  unfair  in  many  judgments. 
Whatever  seemed  a  crime  against  the  gentleness  and  good  taste  to  which  my  rearing 
and  home  atmosphere  had  accustomed  me,  lost  all  authority,  excuse  or  appeal. 

To  return  to  the  occasion  just  mentioned,  I  accompanied  my  Father  cheerfully 
enough,  and  the  visiting  Evangelist  was  sharply  emphatic.  He  painted  in  lurid 
colours  a  rather  tremendous  picture  of  those  who  refused  grace.  He  described 
the  fatal  march  downward,  the  terrible  aspect  and  punishment  waiting,  and 
made  glorious  the  figures  of  the  saved  and  elect,  all  washed  white  as  wool  and 
redeemed  for  everlasting  bliss.  And  just  as  his  flaming  peroration,  painted  in 
exalted  phrase,  the  joys  of  all  believers,  one  in  the  audience  boiled  over — bursting 
into  a  cry  of  suffering  rapture. 

The  tones  were  shrill  and  penetrated  to  the  farthest  corner  and  the  speaker, 
suddenly  visible  as  well  as  audible,  rocked  to  and  fro,  transported  and  ravished 
in  fullness  of  fanatacism  and  an  ecstatic  appropriation  of  the  blessing — "Oh 
Lord!  Withhold!  Withhold!  The  Pitcher  runneth  over!"  And  instantly,  from 
an  old  gentleman  directly  in  front  of  us,  whose  grave  and  dignified  appearance 
I  had  noticed,  sounded  the  calm  and  overwhelming  response  to  that  panting 
cry, — "Oh  Lord,  withhold  not,  but  enlarge  the  Pitcher!" 

It  was  more  than  a  drop  of  oil  on  the  troubled  waters — it  was  a  cold  stream 
upon  violent  fires.  It  smothered  and  deadened  the  flame  as  well  as  quelled  and 
sobered  the  spirit.  A  second's  silence  and  nothing  else  broke  the  composure  of 
the  hour.  There  was  no  further  breaking  bounds.  The  rest  of  the  service  was 
under  easy  sail  at  half  speed.  I  just  loved  that  man.  His  grey  head  bowed  over 
the  hands  folded  on  his  gold-headed  cane,  lived  long  in  my  recollection — an 
embodiment  of  temperance,  gentleness,  and  sobriety  and  humour.  Courage  and 
quick  wit  are  always  powerful. 

And  now  came  that  incredible  time  of  general  setting  at  naught  all  that  was 
not  individual  and  on  one  side.  The  time  of  disparaging,  depreciating  and  under- 
valuing every  opinion  adverse  to  or  differing  from  ours — disputing,  denying, 
calling  in  question  with  no  grains  of  allowance.  It  was  like  vertigo  at  first  when 
they  fired  on  Sumpter.  It  tore  at  the  brain  of  all  lovers  of  our  country,  and  made 
the  people  distrustful,  distrusted,  and  frantic.  It  was  the  period  when  so  much 
was  going  on — when  it  was  so  easy  to  get  lost  in  daily  information — to  see  only 
one  side,  on  which  the  memory  now  can  nowhere  bite. 

We  misconstrued,  misrepresented,  ridiculed,  insulted,  and  in  a  sense  each 
persecuted  the  opposite  side,  both  alike.  Certain  scenes  come  clearly  back  to 
me  and  something  struggles  in  my  mind  with  fears.  It  is  all  like  a  clamorous 
call  to  memory,  and  with  a  passing  shiver  pictures  and  thoughts  of  those  first 
days  of  the  War  shake  me  again.  I  smile  to  think  of  my  own  violence,  and  my 
head  grows  heavier  than  a  cannon-ball,  things  come  back  so  poignantly;  but  I 
cannot  disentangle  them.  Oh!  Oh!  that  fall  of  Sumpter!  The  sudden  excitement 
that  spread  like  a  rushing  wind  over  the  North  and  the  wild  rejoicing  it  aroused 
in  the  frenzied  and  defiant  South!  The  blaring  of  their  trumpets,  the  ringing 
of  their  bells,  the  shouting  threats  of  those  succeeding  States  told  of  the  madness 
that  vowed  to  disrupt  the  Union. 

They  had  fired  on  the  United  States  Flag,  they  had  scorned  and  despised  the 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


Government,  they  no  longer  belonged  to  us,  they  were  enemies  and  not  Country- 
men. The  news  of  Sumpter's  surrender  was  charged  with  dynamic  force.  It  was 
the  beginning  of  fierce  conflict,  the  beginning  of  turbulence,  of  uproar,  of  menace 
to  every  home  and  heart.  Turmoil,  agitation,  underlying  sadness,  a  succession 
of  shocks  that  made  the  wisest  stumble  and  fall.  Whirlpool  and  whirlwind  no 
longer  protected,  imagination  ran  riot.  It  makes  me  lonely  again,  pictures  rising 
up  vividly  out  of  the  shadows.  They  were  leaving  us.  Our  young  men,  our 
friends,  families  were  being  broken,  farewells  on  all  sides  so  inseparable  from 
those  experiences  of  Civil  War.  Always  something  moving  one  to  hot  tears  of 
terror  and  of  rage. 

I  felt  a  paroxysm  of  dread,  an  access  of  unnamable  fear  at  Mr.  Chandler's 
brave  words  when  he  held  my  hand  with  such  firm  and  gentle  grasp  and  looked 
at  me  so  gravely.  They  were  truly  his  last  words,  and  some  spirit  stirred  in  me 
a  sea  of  emotions  that  raised  and  dashed  themselves;  but  have  long  since  frozen 
into  immobility. 

"I  have  loved  your  sparkle — your  laughter,  always  happy  and  irresistible — ■ 
Good-bye,  Little  Friend- — Keep  your  golden  voice  and  heart  ever  young."  It 
was  a  poignant  moment  to  me.  Someway  I  was  aware  of  furious  energy  of  affection 
working  in  me.  I  think  I  can  say  that  I  had  begun  to  recognize  forces  that  make 
all  human  life  significant.  Certain  responsive  suggestions  tore  at  my  heart — but 
Death  did  not  whisper  to  me  then  of  the  long,  long  years  without  that  devoted 
and  unselfish  friend.  Yet  always  that  episode  and  his  looks  and  words  stood  out 
like  reefs  in  an  otherwise  smooth  sea. 

And  the  next  day  I  said  farewell  to  the  young  hero,  of  whose  brilliant  passage 
by  out  house  in  that  Company  of  Zouaves  I  have  described  in  an  earlier  Sketch. 
He  also  then  went  out  of  my  sight  forever.  In  actual  truth  my  Fairy  Prince 
had  never  once  blown  his  silver  horn  or  beckoned  me  to  come  to  him.  Unlike 
Mr.  Chandler,  he  never  came  to  me,  yet  to  me  he  remained  the  superior  being 
whose  every  word  was  treasured.  He  was  the  young  Knight,  lance  in  rest,  about 
to  charge  and  sweep  before  him  all  the  powers  of  evil  and  rebellion.  I  believed 
he  could  sweep  them  like  chaff  before  the  Spring  wind.  He  had  sent  me  his  photo- 
graph. So  long  had  all  fancies  there  been  restrained,  but  as  I  looked  at  that 
picture  of  noble  youth  in  uniform,  they  were  winging  their  way  out  of  the  sky. 
The  excitement  of  expectation  added  to  all  patriotic  fires,  as  I  joined  the  gather- 
ing at  his  home  to  say  goodbye. 

The  Company  of  Zouaves  were  to  leave  the  next  morning  in  a  blaze,  to  my 
eyes,  of  supreme  glory.  April  sunshine  came  through  the  windows  yellow  as 
yellow  wine,  and  the  breeze  from  the  Lake  was  as  fresh  as  wine.  That  fatal  Spring 
had  come  in  with  the  breezes  in  a  subtle  sadness — the  birds  knew  it — and  we 
knew  it.  Showers  of  vital  sunshine  and  heavy  clouds  gathering,  sailing  ever 
lower  and  veiling  the  sun.  All  that  beauty  and  courage  awaiting  destruction! 
Beauty  in  itself  is  nothing  when  the  heart  is  heavy  and  eyes  are  blinded  with 
tears. 

Strange  I  cannot  remember  words  of  greeting  or  good-bye,  only  how  I  felt 
as  his  friends  came  and  went;  some  clapped  him  on  the  shoulders  and  some  spoke 
loudly,  commonplace  words  of  cheer,  and  that  clapping  him  on  the  shoulders 
I  hated.  The  familiarity  somehow  hurt  me.  Vast  shadows  came  up  that  hour. 
When  I  rose  to  go,  he  came  near,  held  out  his  hand,  looked  kindly  and  asked  me 
to  write,  but  I  have  no  words  precious  to  remember.  Why  did  I  never  write? 
Perhaps  because  I  never  doubted  he  would  come  back;  perhaps  because  he  had 
given  me  no  definite  address;  perhaps  because,  afterward,  when  his  sisters  talked 
proudly  of  exploits  and  triumphs  and  their  brother's  phenomenally  speedy  rise 
in  rank,  I  could  never  believe  tidings  from  me  would  be  prized  or  of  any  value. 
I  was  so  small  myself,  when  I  measured  standing  and  stature  with  his  eminence, 
and  to  me  his  unapproachable  pitch  of  loftiness!  You  see,  my  imagination  made 
him  monumental  to  sublimity — and  it  was  only  years  after  that  I  could  under- 
stand how  words  of  appreciation  and  admiration  from  any  honest  source  would 

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have  been  welcomed,  and  were  always  craved  by  those  who,  in  suffering  and 
service,  were  waging  our  battles. 

There  are  layers  of  memory  in  me  that  knew  the  sights  of  massed  companies 
of  troops,  the  training  of  boys  and  soldiers  that  we  heard  of  from  all  sides.  The 
wild  enthusiasm  that  we  all  felt,  communicated  itself  to  the  youngest;  from  men 
of  business  to  the  shrieking  newsboys  on  the  street,  and  the  atmosphere  that  I 
recall  hung  over  us  like  some  outline  of  a  distressed  and  distressful  world. 

Thickly  these  memories  crowd  upon  me,  swift  and  searching  they  rise  with  all 
the  power  of  an  obsession.  All  dreamers  are  alike — literally  and  figuratively, 
alike  in  fury  of  aroused  patriotism!  a  vengeful  wrath  with  no  qualifying  sympathy. 
The  fight  gathered — the  drums  of  power  sounding,  "The  Answering  Sword"  in 
hand — one  thought — one  purpose  as  events  gathered  and  made  a  sequence  of 
passion  and  animosity.  It  haunted  the  soul  of  youth  to  crush  and  destroy  the 
foe.  Quick  sharp  anger  and  defiance  striving  for  inhuman  expression.  My  mind 
is  not  flooded  with  sane  or  vivid  details.     It  was  a  cruel  desperate  time. 

The  time  drops  from  me  as  a  garment  and  I  am  an  eager  girl  whose  personal 
dreams,  aspirations  and  so-called  patriotism  show  elusive  foundations,  for  at 
that  time  all  dreams  or  sense  of  kindred  was  lost  in  ebullitions  of  fury  at  the  South- 
ern action  and  attitude.  One,  after  all,  commits  oneself  all  unconsciously  to  the 
continual  sustaining  of  delusions,  and  I  seized  a  chance  for  vehement  language 
in  the  correspondence  long  since  racy,  between  my  Aunt  Dolly's  step-daughter 
and  myself,  the  little  brown-eyed  Lou  Burge,  that  I  had  grown  so  attached  to  six 
years  before,  when  we  were  together  in  Maine,  at  my  Grandfather  Lunt's.  I 
had  learned  with  pleasure  that  she  was  the  most  brilliant  of  her  class  in  college, 
and  until  the  War  broke  out,  I  had  longed  for  a  renewal  of  companionship,  and 
felt  for  her  a  growing  admiration. 

But  now  in  my  letters  I  expressed  my  views  as  if  they  were  final  and  unshakable. 
I  sought  for  greater  and  ever  greater  vigor  of  expression,  for  now  my  strenuous 
effort  was  to  push  her  into  the  background,  to  overshadow  and  put  out  of  con- 
fidence that  boastful  arrogant  spirit  of  the  South.  It  sounded  contemptuously 
in  her  spirited  replies  to  my  epistles.  It  took  higher  and  ever  higher  ground  of 
mighty  assurance.  It  was  magniloquent  in  its  tremendous  superiority,  so  that  it 
seemed  braggart  pretension,  and  I  didn't  care  who  I  hurt  by  tall  talking  back, 
and  by  my  own  flourish  of  bravado. 

It  was  bombast  on  both  sides,  as  time  proved,  but  I  tried  to  domineer  by  a 
haughtiness  and  overbearance  that  was  precisely  in  its  insolence  like  the  face 
of  brass  I  was  snapping  my  fingers  at!  We  flew  to  trample  and  intimidate,  and 
mounting  a  high  horse,  I  used  all  my  faculties  in  that  correspondence  to  ride 
roughshod,  and  crush  underfoot  by  trenchant  sarcastic  bluster.  I  tried  to  be 
harsh  and  imperious  in  biting  words — and  I  succeeded.  The  ungentle  contro- 
versy became  acrimonious  and,  in  bad  grace,  was  dropped  perforce  with  all  com- 
munications between  the  rebel  States  and  ours. 

Reveries  step  hard  upon  the  heels  of  each  other  and  bring  forgotten  associa- 
tions to  life!  And  vivid  sensations  focus  about  that  time,  for  there  were  in  the 
very  intensity  of  those  passions  an  increased  allegiance  and  the  constantly  stimu- 
lated love  of  country,  ever  developing  and  deepening.  The  individual  illustrations 
in  our  Army,  and  often  of  our  own  circle,  taught  new  lessons  of  great  bravery 
and  lofty  self-sacrifice,  and  I  felt  I  was  slowly  learning  new  values  of  loyalty  and 
devotion. 

We  were  no  longer  stirred  with  hospitality  offered  or  received,  few  entertain- 
ments or  festivals,  many  interchanges  cut  off,  less  and  less  time  for  social  visiting. 
The  Fairs,  the  Sanitary  Commission  demands,  the  sending  stores  and  bundles, 
food  and  clothing  plunged  one  into  an  unending  state  of  confusion,  agitation, 
and  moral  nausea.  There  were  reasons  why  one  should  do  this  or  not  do  that, 
why  one  should  desire  to  do  other  things  than  see  friends,  always  prompted  to 
save  energy  for  so-called  War  Work,  bandage  making  especially,  that  was  to  me. 
because  of  inflamed  fancy,  such  shuddering  labour,  alienating  in  every  thought, 
forever  up  in  armsagainsl  a  ruthless  foe!  Wherever  one  turned  nothing  fraternal  or  un- 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


hostile  in  our  world.    And  so  all  work  seemed  only  for  a  cruel  end.    To  all  those 
around,  life  in  War  time,  was  little  better  than  a  series  of  dagger  thrusts. 

My  enchanted  castles  of  great  beauty  and  delight  had  been  reared,  it  appeared, 
on  the  flimsiest  foundations,  and  life  noiselessly,  in  the  midst  of  uproar  and  trumpet 
blast,  was  whispering  and  breathing  into  me  something  that  deafened  "The  still 
small  voice"  was  not  heard,  for  evil  was  in  full  cry — the  very  air  was  ringing  with 
its  violence.  And  so  began  our  defeats — Bull  Run,  and  all  the  rest  at  first  fairly 
frenzied  us,  and  all  good  cheer  and  high  hopes  were  relegated  to  a  past  of  peace 
and  jollity  and  good-fellowship  apparently  over  forever.  Isolation  of  a  new  order 
invaded  the  days,  a  queer  consciousness  of  divisions,  of  dissensions,  of  semi- 
spiritual  emotion  all  a-quiver.  Something  forever  melting  in  me  and  heating  to 
a  point  of  suffering  and  hysteria. 

One,  after  all,  unconsciously  connects  oneself  to  the  continual  sustaining  of 
delusions,  yet  at  that  period,  surely  had  things  about  me  personally  become 
shrunken.  My  life  grew  unimportant,  on  a  different  and  smaller  scale — loneli- 
ness of  a  new  order,  consciousness  of  being  single-handed — a  solitary  individual, 
unable  to  serve  or  to  fight.  The  great  maw  of  the  Cause  opening  ever  wider  and 
wider  for  money  and  time.  My  parents  I,  someway,  seemed  to  see  less  and  less 
often,  absorbed  with  others  of  equal  patriotism  in  sacrificial  labours  and  bestow- 
ments.  Happiness,  for  valid  reasons,  had  fled  or  was  dispensed  with,  and  the 
awful  noise  of  the  awful  conflict,  in  which  horrors  repeated  themselves  from  the 
shadow-lands  of  death,  took  away  all  that  made  life  precious. 

But  even  to  try  to  roll  back  the  curtain  of  time,  is  to  summon  those  who  stood 
out  and  incarnated  lofty  virtues;  to  summon  figures,  and  crowds  in  fact,  of  those 
heroes  on  both  sides  who  gave  life  and  all  its  joys  as  an  unrequited  debt.  And 
Oh!  how  wrong  it  all  seems  now,  with  wider  experience  and  fuller  knowledge  of 
other  countries,  and  yet  it  all  repeated  itself  over  fifty  years  later  in  the  more 
horrible  World  War. 

In  order  to  judge  life  as  it  ought  to  be  judged,  we  must  have  the  courage  to 
look  it  in  the  face,  to  forget  ourselves  as  far  as  possible — and  of  all  things  that 
is  the  most  difficult.  There  are  so  few  people  capable  of  getting  outside  the  circle 
of  their  own  existence,  to  see  the  grandeur  of  their  littleness  or  the  littleness  of 
all  their  grandeur. 

Those  impulses  of  the  will  for  the  happiness  or  unhappiness  of  others,  create 
certain  currents  and  dispense  or  attract  certain  forces.  And  now  for  a  picture 
of  the  other  side — 

From  the  beginning  we  had  been  weaving  all  on  one  side,  making  a  target  and 
centering  all  faculties  on  putting  bullets  into  the  other.  The  smoke  of  our  powder 
has  spread  and  spread  until  it  hazes  or  hides  the  forms  of  combatants.  Take 
down  those  barricades,  where  the  two  enemies  have  been  whipping  forth  their 
weapons,  and  seize  a  little  chance  to  get  in  sight  of  the  other  side,  and  learn  also 
of  their  skirmishing  and  ravaging.  We  have  raged  too  long  in  hostile  factions. 
The  winds  which  have  rushed  down  from  the  hills,  from  the  hills  of  North  and 
South  in  wildest  storm,  have  not  been  as  bitter  as  our  enmity. 

Once,  a.s  children,  Lou  and  I  owned  no  subtlety,  equally  ready  for  wordy  fights 
or  frolics;  but  the  case  then  demanded  whole-hearted  participation.  Incompati- 
bility now  lay,  after  all,  only  beneath  the  skin.  Oh  Lou  Burge!  dear  little  play- 
mate of  six  years  before,  I  am  going  to  look  into  those  flashing  eyes  closed  alas! 
as  cruel  fate  had  willed,  before  the  end  of  the  conflict.  How  I  would  have  liked 
to  show  her  that  I  had  not  lost  all  ideas  of  the  amenities  of  social  intercourse,  all 
sense  of  affection,  all  memory  of  our  pact  of  friendship,  but,  long  before  I  could 
shape  my  lips  and  strive  to  cross  the  barrier,  it  was  too  late. 

The  hot  days  of  that  first  Summer  of  1861,  the  late  Autumn  that  followed, 
the  cruel  Winter  that  shut  her  in,  and  the  Spring  again  when  she  could  only  write 
the  few  pathetic  words,  "My  health  is  failing  fast;  I  fear  it  is  consumption", 
the  fatality  of  her  disease,  had  drenched  the  system  and  the  wavering  flame  within 
went  out  as  sudden  as  a  blow.  She  was  always  to  the  last  the  intense  Southerner, 
reared   against   Northern  influences   and   Northern   surroundings.        Everything 


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about  her  had  betrayed  that  fact,  and  I  remember  how  I  experienced  a  disconcert- 
ing shock  that  early  time  at  Grandfather  Lunt's  over  our  differences,  small,  even 
as  an  alien  inflection  or  the  drawl  of  the  Southern  pronunciation,  while  she,  as 
a  child,  made  me  realize  instinctively  that  she  always  wished  to  avoid  the  con- 
tamination of  the  North. 

That  clever  little  step-daughter  of  my  Aunt  Dolly's,  who  suddenly  stood  in 
the  forefront  of  the  enemy,  and  we  as  suddenly  became  belligerent  hot  and  ve- 
hement; left,  by  chance,  an  old  Journal  only  half  complete,  begun  when  she  was 
the  most  brilliant  of  her  class  in  college,  and  most  of  the  entries  belong  to  the 
period  of  which  I  have  been  writing.  It  is  through  the  adopted  child  of  our  heart 
and  home  (My  Aunt  Dolly's  grandchild  and  my  Father's  grand-niece)  that  I  have 
the  little  book  with  its  fine  old-fashioned  writing,  in  places  faded  and  almost  blurred. 
See!  how  it  throws  a  little  light  on  the  situation  as  well  as  justifies  the  natural 
attitude  of  those  Southern  relatives.  I  quote  some  telling  excerpts. — 
January,  1861. 

"I  have  concluded  to  keep  a  Journal,  not  so  much  as  a  record  of  my  own 
thoughts,  feelings  and  acts  solely,  but  mostly  as  they  occur  with  the  events  of 
the  times — for  these  are  certainly  times  to  which  all  history  fails  to  furnish  a 
parallel  and  it  will  not  prove  uninteresting  to  me  when  age  shall  have  whitened 
my  hair  and  partially  destroyed  my  memory  (should  God  graciously  permit  me 
to  live  to  old  age)." 

At  that  time,  so  near  her  graduation  at  seventeen,  chosen  to  be  Valedictorian, 
and  immensely  popular  of  course,  follows  incidents  and  events  of  a  personal  nature, 
class  and  social  triumphs,  an  account  of  honours  received  and  pleasures  exper- 
ienced, until  we  meet  this  exciting  entry: 

"At  two  o'clock  the  bells  down  town  were  ringing  loudly  and  people  shouting 
gladly,  for  at  twelve  o'clock  Georgia,  the  Empire  State  of  the  South,  passed  the 
ordinance  of  Secession  and  declared  herself  free  and  independent  by  severing 
all  ties  that  bound  her  formerly  to  the  Union. 

South  Carolina  had  set  the  example,  Florida,  Alabama  and  Mississippi  fol- 
lowing speedily,  and  right  proud  am  I  that  Georgia  is  now  with  them  in  this  im- 
portant decision  and  that  Cousin  Dick  Davis  was  a  member  of  the  Convention. 
Macon  is  now  illuminated  in  honour  of  the  Secession  of  our  State.  Every  city, 
town  or  hamlet  is  illuminated  and  blazing  with  joy.  The  College  buildings  here 
are  beautiful.  We  were  all  in  splendid  spirits.  We  had  fine  fun  fixing  up  rooms 
and  windows,  and  with  a  number  of  excited  officials  and  students  we  decorated 
the  large  hall.  We  had  flags  floating  from  the  main  doors — flags  bearing  upon 
them  Georgia  and  Florida  symbols — and  the  brilliant  shouting  Torchlight  pro- 
cession passed  our  buildings  singing  and  dipping  flags  and  mottoes,  and  Hurrahing 
again  and  again  for  our  College  girls.  It  was  an  exciting  scene  indeed— all  the 
Companies  were  out,  and  the  Minute  Men,  and  I  had  smiles  and  lifted  weapons 
from  many  I  knew.  I  must  not  forget  to  put  down  here  that  the  numerous  candles 
burnt  into  the  wood  of  some  of  the  windows,  and  greatly  impaired  their  appear- 
ance afterward,  whereat  the  Teachers  were  reproachful  that  we  had  shown  so 

little  care  in  fastening  them — but  I  was  too  thrilled  to  care  about  that." 

*     *     *     *     *     * 

"Have  had  a  lively  description  of  the  leaving  of  the  Brown  Rifles  for  Vir- 
ginia. There  were  so  many  embraces,  so  much  crying  that  Emma  wrote  me 
'she  was  seriously  afraid  the  Depot  would  be  washed  away!'  In  Camp  in  Charles- 
ton, South  Carolina,  they  have  mustered  in  many  we  know." 

Alexander  Stevens  of  Georgia  has  been  chosen  Vice-President  and  Jefferson 
Davis  of  Mississippi,  President  of  the  Provisional  Government  of  the  Southern 
Confederacy.  Companies  are  being  formed  all  over  the  country  to  be  ready  in 
an  emergency." 

"Lincoln  takes  his  seat  as  President  of  the  United  States.  His  message  is 
the  poorest  thing  I  ever  read.  Who  could  expect  more  of  one  who  spent  his  lite 
in  the  West!  First  as  a  Rail-splitter,  and  then  as  a  boatman  on  the  Ohio.  We 
are  yet  in  hopes  that   there  will  not  be  much  of  a  War." 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


April. 

"Old  Abe  refused  to  have  the  troops  removed  from  Fort  Sumpter.  The  Caro- 
linians declare  they  will  take  it  if  it  costs  ten  thousand  lives.  The  Steamer,  "Star 
of  the  West",  attempted  to  reinforce  her,  but  the  guns  from  Fort  Moultrie  obliged 
her  to  retrace  her  course.  Our  men  later  opened  fire  upon  Sumpter.  She  replied, 
but  it  was  of  no  use,  and  the  Fort  which  the  Yankees  declared  impregnable  sur- 
rendered. Not  a  man  was  killed  on  either  side.  But,  Colonel  Anderson  having 
obtained  permission  to  salute  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  four  of  his  men  were  killed 
by  the  bursting  of  a  gun.  'The  Stars  and  Bars'  of  Liberty  now  float  over  Sumpter. 
All  honour  to  our  brave  General  Beauregarde.  Cousin  Wiley  has  sent  me  his 
photograph.  Oh!  he  is  so  fine  and  he  looks  every  inch  the  brave  soldier  that  he 
is!" 
April  20. 

"We  have  been  driving  all  over  Macon  and  out  in  the  country,  and  down- 
town everything  is  bustle  and  preparation.  The  Macon  Volunteers  and  the 
Floyd  Riflemen  leave  tonight  for  Virginia.  I  am  to  present  a  Flag  to  one  of  the 
Companies  where  there  are  so  many  we  know — and  the  partings  are  sad.  Eva 
Bellamy  spent  nearly  the  whole  evening  in  my  room  crying.  This  is  no  time  for 
weeping — but  I  have  had  a  time  of  it.  The  girls  are  almost  all  of  them  crying — 
some  of  them  fairly  sick  over  one  or  another  of  the  boys  who  don't  care  a  snap 
for  them  or  their  tears.  I  am  glad  that  I  am  not  in  love,  if  that  is  the  way  I  should 
have  to  act  if  my  sweetheart  should  leave  for  the  Wars.  I  have  just  received  a 
letter  from  Ed.  Beecher  repeating  urgently  the  offer  of  marriage  he  made  in  August 
last.  I  refused  then — and  I  refuse  more  decidedly  now.  Geraldine  Howeson 
regrets  that  Fm  not  out  of  College,  she  says  so  that  I  could  and  ought  to  flirt 
with  him,  of  which  she  avers  her  own  intention  if  he  should  ever  address  her.  Miss 
Mattie  told  her  'that  he  had  been  engaged  to  or  flirted  with  every  pretty  girl 
in  Macon  until  he  came  up  against  me.'  What  do  I  care  for  men  who  haven't 
any  better  occupations — Fm  vitally  interested  only  in  those  who  join  the  Volun- 
teers— Would  that  I  could  be  mustered  in  as  one  of  them. — The  Confederate 
Flag  is  in  our  Chapel  now." 

"Have  just  had  two  letters  today  from  Nina  Lunt  of  Chicago.     She  is  full  of 
enthusiasm — a  fierce  Unionist.     We  have  been  having  a  sharp  controversy  with 
regard  to  the  United  States  and  the  Southern  Confederacy.     One  letter  of  hers 
is  dated  April  21.     She  commenced  with  'E.  Pluribus  Unum',    The  United  States 
Flag  was  in  one  corner  of  her  sheet  and  under  it  the  words — 
"Then  conquer  we  must 
When  our  cause  it  is  just, 
And  this  be  our  motto, 
In  God  is  our  trust. 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave." 
She  speaks  very  bitterly  of  the  South  and  she  is  but  one  of  the  vast  North.    They 
are  all  angry.    The  fall  of  their  Flag  at  Fort  Sumpter  has  aroused  them  all.    Deep 
vows  of  vengeance  are  muttered  against  the  South.     Let  the  storm  come!     We 
will  meet  it  as  free  men  and  true  Southerners  should. 

Nina  says — 'Excitement!  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  the  extent  of  it. 
The  whole  North  is  in  a  blaze.  Woe  be  to  their  opponents!  The  rash  and  mis- 
guided South! — Oh  terrible!  Oh  terrible  will  be  their  destruction,  and  they  will 
be  utterly  exterminated  or  submit'." 

"Such  is  the  spirit  of  the  North — Submission  or  Annihilation  is  their  cry! 
They  look  for  a  short  War — for  what,  they  ask,  can  a  people  like  the  South,  raised 
to  indolence  and  luxurious  habits,  do  against  the  all  powerful  North,  as  Nina  styles 
it.  We  are  a  people  compared  with  them  numerically  weak  but  strong  in  the 
justice  of  our  cause,  powerful  in  our  unity,  and  unconquerable  as  long  as  we  remain 
fixed  in  our  avowed  determination.    We  may  be  annihilated  but  conquered  never! 

"Again  Nina  says,  'Loud  and  deep  are  the  vows  of  vengeance  breathed  by 
all  against  the  presumptuous  tyrannical  minority.     They  had  better  spare  their 

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breath  to  be  used  in  a  better  cause,  for  those  who  have  defied  the  Union  and 
aspersed  the  bravery  of  Northerners  will  have  a  terrible  opportunity  of  finding 
out  their  mistake.  No  one  can  oppose  us — no  one  has  the  power — I  suppose 
the  South  is  crazy — they  must  be  mad  to  entertain  for  a  moment  the  thought  of 
battling  with  the  United  States!  Oh  what  a  bitter,  bitter  harvest  they  will  reap, 
but  repentance  will  come  too  late.  Our  troops  will  go  where  they  please,  nothing 
can  prevent  them'." 

"Later  Nina  writes,  alluding  to  Baltimore,  whose  citizens  refused  to  let  the 
Union  troops  pass  through,  firing  into  the  cars  and  killing  many.  'As  for  that 
Mob-City,  they  will  burn  it  to  the  ground  and  destroy  it  entirely;  but  we  will 
at  all  costs  pass  through.  And  not  only  that  City  but  the  entire  South.  Who  can 
turn  them  aside  for  a  moment?  This  will  be  a  great  War,  and  I  glory  in  living  in 
such  times.  I  shall  live,  I  know,  unless  God  cuts  me  off  suddenly,  to  see  the  Stars 
and  Stripes  wave  over  every  portion  of  this  land.  And  the  Flag  of  the  Union 
shall  float  from  every  place  where  it  has  been  before,  even  if  it  is  only  a  pile  of 
bricks'." 

"Well!  Friend  Nina — God  will  either  cut  you  off  very  suddenly,  or  prolong 
your  life  many  long  years  after  I  have  moulded  in  the  dust.  God  grant  that  I 
may  live  to  see  my  Country  free,  or  that  He  will  take  me  from  here,  if  in  his  mercy 
and  kindness  He  does  not  intend  to  free  us  or  permit  us  to  free  ourselves;  for  life 
under  the  rule  of  those  who  now  have  sway  in  Washington  would  be  no  longer 
desirable,  robbed  of  all  its  joys.  The  grave  would  be  best  for  me  and  far,  far  pre- 
ferable to  submission.  You  say,  Nina,  'Those  who  have  aspersed  the  bravery 
of  our  Northerners  will  have  a  terrible  opportunity  of  finding  out  their  mistake — 
Of  battling  with  such  as  we.'    We  shall  see,  Nina,  we  shall  see." 

Behold  me  writing  thus! — a  young  fire-eater  indeed,  with  no  sympathy  for 
the  other  side,  no  comprehension  of  their  bravery  in  rebellion,  and  no  pity  or 
compassion. 

And  now  again  for  the  Journal — ■ 
May  5. 

"Great  excitement  in  Oxford  yesterday,  good  news  from  the  front.  Uncle 
Parkes  came  for  the  night,  the  Flag,  floated  from  our  Cupola  and  there  was  great 
rejoicing.  Henry  Graves  has  left  College  and  he  appeared  later.  He  seemed  very 
glad  to  see  me  and  I  am  sure  ray  pleasure  was  not  feigned.  He  has  been  a  good 
friend  of  mine  for  years — they  all  know  now  that  I'm  going  home,  my  health  will 
not  let  me  study  more  or  even  stay  for  Graduation.  I  have  told  the  girls  I  did 
not  think  I  could  ever  come  back.  They  protested  and  said  nice  things;  but 
it's  no  use.  I've  written  to  Mr.  Brownell  that  'as  my  health  did  not  improve 
I  could  not  accept  the  honours  they  offer.'  At  the  same  time  how  glad  I  am  that 
I  was  thought  worthy  of  them  by  the  Faculty,  appreciating  it  as  the  indication 
of  the  stand  I  took  in  my  Class. 

John  H.  Ross  left  me  to  join  the  Macon  Volunteers  last  Thursday.  He  looked 
very  handsome  in  his  soldier's  uniform.  What  he  said  to  me  I  cannot  write.  I 
have  lately  had  a  time  of  it,  the  girls  almost  all  of  them  crying  when  the  various 
Companies  saluted  us  at  leaving.  Jessie  Ethridge  was  so  overcome  that  she  has 
been  ill  in  bed  ever  since.  A  snap  for  her!  and  for  all  such  weakness!  I  even 
heard  Susie  Clayton  screaming  that  splendid  hour  of  their  departure.  Ridiculous! 
It  was  hysterical  folly  and  not  true  patriotism.  There  is  no  timidity,  no  humble- 
ness in  me.  Independence  in  speech,  and  always  doing  as  I  please  neither  teachers 
nor  girls  always  like,  and  there  are  others  besides  teachers  equally  disturbed! 
We  have  whipped  our  enemies  already  in  more  than  one  fight.  The  blood  of  the 
martyr,  Jackson,  who  shot  Colonel  Ellsworth  as  he  attempted  to  tear  down  the 
Confederate  Flag  and  was  afterward  killed  by  Ellsworth's  men,  calls  aloud  for 
vengeance.    And  our  boys  have  determined  to  avenge  him  or  die  in  the  attempt. 

"Cousin  Wiley  left  a  few  nights  ago  with  a  fine  cargo  of  cotton — the  Steamer 
'Nellie';  I  am  afraid  the  Yankees  will  catch  him  when  he  comes  in.  The  Steamer 
'Nashville'  was  in  Beaufort,  N.  C,  with  a  cargo  valued  at  three  hundred  thousand. 
She  was  fired  at  by  the  blockaders;  but  they  did  not  hurt  her.     How  1  would  have 


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liked  to  have  seen  her!  The  Confederate  'Bars  and  Stars'  proudly  floated  out, 
sailing  defiantly  up  under  the  Guns  at  Fort  Macon  amid  the  cheers  of  the  crowd, 
while  the  Blockader,  chagrined  and  disappointed,  dared  not  venture  near.  The 
'Nashville'  burned  the  'Henry  Burch'  on  her  outward  voyage  and  sunk  a  Steamer 
when  coming  in. 

The  'Sumpter'  has  so  far  burned  twenty-one  Yankee  vessels.  How  they  would 
like  to  get  hold  of  her  and  her  gallant  bold  and  brave,  Captain  Desmond." 

*  *        H= 

"Battle  of  Bull  Run!     Yankees  repulsed  with  heavy  loss.     Our  men  hold 

their  ground.     Beauregarde  commanding  our  forces." 

*  *     * 

"On  this  the  Holy  Sabbath  we  fought  the  greatest  battle  ever  fought  on  the 
American  Continent.  Since  the  removal  of  our  seat  of  Government  from  Mont- 
gomery Alabama,  to  Richmond,  Virginia,  the  Yankee  Army  has  been  loud  in  their 
threats.  They  would  have  Richmond  by  the  fourth  of  July,  the  whole  way  torn 
down  and  disgraced,  the  Stars  and  Stripes  should  wave  over  that  devoted  City. 
Jeff  Davis  and  Stevens  should  be  hung!!!  Disappointed  about  possessing  the 
City  by  that  time,  they  during  the  preceding  week  advanced.  Our  men  engaged 
them,  they  fought  desperately  from  four  in  the  morning  till  seven  in  the  evening. 
At  one  time  it  seemed  that  we  must  be  whipped  for  among  our  troops  they  could 
discover  fresh  troops  coming  up,  and  whether  friend  or  foe  they  could  not  tell; 
foes  though,  they  supposed  them,  and  they  thought  they  would  have  to  retreat. 
Their  hearts  sank  within  them,  nearer  and  nearer  they  came,  they  could  tell  nothing 
from  their  uniform  and  their  Flag  was  not  seen.  Nearer  and  nearer — nearer  and 
nearer — all  is  suspense!  A  gust  of  wind  comes  up,  their  Flag  unfurled  by  the 
breeze  reveals  the  'Stars  and  Bars'.  Such  a  shout  as  our  Forces,  tired  and  ex- 
hausted men,  sent  up.  It  was  General  J.  E.  Johnston's  men  left  some  distance 
off  for  want  of  transportation.  They  had  come  part  of  the  way  on  the  run,  and 
'double-quick'  the  rest  of  the  way,  several  miles,  hastening  all  they  could  and 
with  a  glorious  answering  shout  they  charged  the  enemy.  Consternation  seized 
upon  them — their  ranks  broke— they  fled  in  every  direction,  flung  away  guns, 
clothes,  haversacks,  ammunition — Officers  left  their  men — men  their  Officers — 
everyone  going  upon  the  principal  each  for  himself  and  the  Devil  take  the  hinder- 
most,  and  the  Devil  did  take  the  hindermost.  Such  a  stampede — such  a  rout 
was  never  heard  of.  A  great  party  of  Congressmen,  citizens  and  so-forth,  came 
from  Washington  to  witness  the  expected  victory  and  glory  over  our  retreat  and 
defeat.  Shame  be  upon  them!  Ladies  were  among  them,  too.  One  Miss  Thurlow 
Weed  of  New  Jersey,  had  obtained  permission  to  plant  the  United  States  Flag 
on  the  rebels  Capital.  They  had  a  fine  dinner  in  view — champagne,  lemonade 
and  a  great  spread — but  they  stayed  not  to  eat  it!  Our  Cavalry  pursued  them 
and  took  many  prisoners,  arms  and  things  they  threw  away  in  their  mad  fright. 
Oh!  and  handcuffs  were  found  that  they  had  purchased  for  the  principal  citizens 
of  Richmond.  They!  a  Christian  civilized  nation  fighting  against  those  once 
their  brothers!  The  Georgians  covered  themselves  with  glory.  We  suffered  a 
great  loss — General  B — ,  of  S.  C.  Colonel  Burton  of  Georgia,  and  other  heroes 
were  killed.  General  Beauregarde  complimented  them  in  high  terms.  Too  much 
praise  cannot  be  bestowed  upon  General  J.  E.  Johnston  and  Beauregarde,  while 

all  praise  is  due  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts." 

*  *     * 

"Another  battle  at  Valley  Mountain,  West  Virginia.  Our  troops  repulsed 
the  enemy.  We  whipped  them.  Cousin  Dick  Davis  was  in  the  fight.  His  Com- 
pany— The  Patterson  Light  Infantry." 

sfc  ^  * 

"Henry  and  Dutton  Graves  came  bounding  in  Saturday.  They  were  all 
surprised  to  see  me  looking  so  badly.  Two  months  before  no  one  could  have  made 
me  believe  that  any  cause  could  have  kept  me  from  graduating  in  form  with  my 
class.    How  swiftly  does  Time  work  changes!" 

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Other  entries  mention  Companies  formed,  and  individuals  joining  and  leaving 
for  the  Field  of  Battle,  and  she  tells  of  incendiary  fires,  houses  burned  and  even 
the  Church  catching  fire,  adding  significantly,  "We  are  all  endangered.  There 
is  a  great  deal  of  burning  through  the  country.  Yankees  are  among  us  no  doubt." 
Exaggerated  notices  of  various  encounters  and  circumstances  quite  impossible 
ever  to  have  occurred  are  natural,  and  to  be  expected  from  that  ardent  and  fierce 
young  soul.     And  of  course  the  dates  are  incorrect,  often  the  information  itself. 

When  she  tells  of  the  exultant  whipping  of  the  foe  and  growing  disdain  for 
the  enemy.     Here  is  a  characteristic  entry — 

"It  makes  me  laugh  to  hear  what  our  contemptible  enemies  talk  about  an- 
nihilating us!  The  idea  is  simply  ridiculous.  They  may  take  Charleston,  Sa- 
vannah, Pensacola,  Mobile,  New  Orleans,  Memphis  and  every  intermediate  town 
on  the  sea-coast  and  Mississippi  River,  and  five  thousand  cannon  may  be  pointed 
at  the  fortifications  at  and  around  Richmond;  but  the  heart  of  the  Southern 
heart  will  not  be  touched.     We  cannot  be  conquered.     Never — Never — Never. 

"Washington  at  one  time  had  eight  thousand  miserable  half-clad, half-armed 
and  half-starved  men  under  him.  This  was  the  United  States  Army.  Did  he 
despair?  When  asked  if  he  could  be  conquered  he  replied,  'That,  if  still  pressed, 
Flag  in  hand,  he  would  retreat  to  the  Western  Mountains  where  his  foes  could 
not  follow  and  there  plant  the  Flag  of  Freedom.'  This  is  our  spirit.  Who  then 
can  conquer  us?  We  surrendered  at  Donaldson,  and  Nashville  fell  into  their 
hands;  but  it  was  after  hard  and  terrible  fighting — four  days — Ten  thousand 
against  eighty  thousand.  Their  killed  was  about  seven  thousand.  A  man  killed 
for  every  prisoner  they  took.    Yet  they  call  this  the  bloodiest  battle  of  the  American 

Continent — A  great  victory — and  insanely  rejoice  over  it!" 

*  *     * 

"General  Brown  ordered  a  general  muster  today  for  the  purpose  of  raising 
twelve  thousand  volunteers.  Newton  was  required  to  send  one  hundred  and 
sixty.  She  did  so  without  a  draft.  No  fears  but  what  the  Empire  State  will  do 
her  duty." 

"Took  dinner  again  at  Mr.  Graves'  yesterday.  A  Sabbath,  a  Holy  one  that 
dawns  upon  us  as  a  free  and  independent  people.  I  accept  it  as  a  bright  omen 
of  our  future  happiness  and  prosperity  as  a  Nation.    Henceforth  our  course  shall 

be  as  glorious  and  brilliant  as  the  noon-day  sun.    God  grant  it  may  be  so." 

*  *     * 

"Washington's  Birthday!  dear  to  every  Virginian.  Dear  to  every  Southern 
heart.  The  Birthday  of  our  Leader  and  President  in  this  glorious  struggle  for 
independence.  The  first  rebel!  Today  will  ever  more,  if  possible,  be  a  thousand 
times  more  precious  to  us,  for  at  this  same  date  it  was  at  twelve  o'clock  in  Rich- 
mond in  front  of  the  statue  of  Washington  when  Jefferson  Javis  was  inaugurated — 
When  he  took  there  the  solemn  oath  to  support  the  Constitution  and  Laws  of 
the  Confederate  States  of  America." 

"The  past  week  has  been  one  of  gloom  and  darkness  both  mentally  and  as 
regards  weather.  The  Windows  of  Heaven  seem  to  have  been  open  and  the  rain 
poured  in  torrents.  I  was  almost  ready  to  exclaim  that  the  'Bow  of  Promise' 
had  been  withdrawn  from  the  Heavens — Advised  "Indee"  every  few  minutes 
to  look  out,  to  look  out  of  the  windows  to  see  if  the  Yankee  Gun-boats  were  not 
sailing  up  the  Spring-branch!  Roanoke  Island,  Fort  Henry  and  Donaldson 
have  for  a  time  filled  the  stoutest  and  most  hopeful  heart  with  gloom,  and  even 
disheartened  some  of  the  most  timorous  ones  amongst  us.  But  the  dark  clouds 
of  misfortune  will,  I  pray  God,  soon  roll  away." 
June  26. 

"My  Birthday — and  Henry  and  I  had  a  long,  long  talk.  Cousin  Wiley  spent 
the  last  week  with  us.  He  says  we  can  see  light.  The  last  two  months  have 
indeed  been  stirring  ones.     My  health  does  not  improve.     I  fear  consumption." 


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"John  Perry  was  buried  today.  He  died  near  Yorktown.  Not  a  friend,  not 
even  an  acquaintance  near  to  bear  home  his  dying  messages  or  to  whisper  words 
of  cheer  and  comfort  as  he  entered  the  Dark  Valley  and  Shadow  of  Death.  Then, 
too,  to  lie  there  having  been  told  that  he  could  live  but  ten  hours  and  die  without 
one  hope  for  the  future.  Nothing — nothing  beyond  the  grave.  God  grant  that 
Death  finds  me  not  thus — Not  shrinking  from  an  unknown  future,  but  rejoicing 
in  the  hope  of  an  Eternal  Heaven  beyond  the  Grave." 

Without  any  elaboration  or  explanation  I  find  this  brief  closing  entry — "Christ- 
mas was  very  quiet,  and  Oh,  very  different  from  last  year  which  I  spent  in  Ed- 
monton with  my  dear  friend  Julian — I  have  not  heard  from  him  since  they  left 
Roanoke  Island  for  Portsmouth  and  I  am  very  anxious.  I  have  been  engaged  a 
year" — And  here  the  old,  old  Journal  is  torn  and  tells  no  more  its  sad  little  story. 

The  Family  believe,  and  it  is  doubtless  true,  that  that  brilliant  little  daughter 
of  the  South  was  pledged  to  Henry  Graves.  Some  thought  it  was  Cousin  Wiley — 
or  it  might  have  been  the  unknown  Julian!  Who  can  tell?  Her  heart  burned  hotly 
and  first  for  her  Country. 

I  have  given  here  almost  all  that  was  left  in  that  faded  Journal,  the  record  of 
that  one  pathetic  young  life;  illustrative  and  illuminative  in  its  simplicity,  its 
intensity,  its  bareness,  its  imprisonment  in  bitter  pains  and  defeats,  and  the 
untold  disappointment  of  the  whole — not  written  out  but  revealed  in  her  late 
entries.  After  these  long  years  since  she  was  laid  to  rest  they  speak  from  her 
heart  to  mine — and  we  are  friends  again. 

Details  make  a  story  live.  Curious  how  certain  influences  and  words  linger 
and  mysteriously  affect  us.    They  hold  attention  long,  long  after  they  are  uttered. 

I  have  often  felt  that  lovely  Lou  Burge  was  suffering  under  some  burden, 
and  was  rid  of  it  only  when  throwing  herself  into  the  daily  whirl  of  passion.  So 
sensitive,  frail  and  delicate  she  was,  and  yet  pushed  by  an  innate  fiery  power 
of  feeling,  so  that  she  made  me  aware  in  her  passionate  response  of  great  moments 
in  her  own  life,  and  of  vows  made  in  the  secret  house  of  being.  We  were  only  two 
girls.  We  represented  the  two  hostile  factions,  and  there  is  more  of  interest  than 
of  strangeness  in  what  crowded  in  that  period  into  our  lives.  Both  sides  were 
accomplishing  what  they  believed  imposed  upon  them,  on  every  point  urging 
War  until  fighting  and  hating  had  become  instinctive.  Each  side  rallied  around 
its  so-called  "Righteous  Cause"  never  standing  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  a  single 
thought  or  feeling — No — We  quarrelled  and  killed  each  other.  We  were  attacked 
and  we  were  defeated — and  we  conquered — and  we  could  not  stop  at  that.  There 
were  many  sins  of  conquest  that  the  conscience  of  the  nation  did  not  recognize 
for  long. 

The  War  separates — It  has  separated  families,  Fathers,  Sons  and  Brothers, 
Husbands  and  Wives,  Sisters  and  Mothers.  What  has  happened,  has  happened 
and  we  cannot  go  back.  We  have  to  go  on,  and  treasures  have  been  taken  from 
us  that  never  can  be  returned. 


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BOOK    IV 


THE    STATE    OF    SIEGE 

Things  continued  to  happen  and  Sorrow  began  to  stalk  the  land.  It  came 
even  to  our  far  away  city  in  its  ebb  and  flow.  Families  were  invaded — Mothers 
mourned  a  son.  Young  wives  were  widowed,  little  children  Fatherless  and  lovers 
wrested  apart.  It  was  a  raging,  gasping  conflict,  and  in  near-by  houses  one  heard 
bitter  cries  over  those  who  had  gone  out  to  battle  and  death.  Everywhere  Civil 
upheaval,  the  boil  of  Civil  War  vibrant,  and  above  its  hissing  sounds  of  grief, 
sharp  on  the  surface,  those  shadows  crept,  even  into  a  Chicago  home  which  had 
always  been  a  Paradise  of  Peace  to  its  inmates. 

The  daily  Press  told  tales  of  tense  belligerent  manhood,  brave  in  battle,  force- 
ful and  unyielding  but  mowed  down  mercilessly.  Rage  grew  in  the  heart  and 
fear  on  the  faces.  And  yet  the  birds  sang,  the  birds  that  had  traveled  from  those 
fields  of  slaughter,  from  South  to  North  with  unheeded  message. 

Still  about  us  the  far  stretched  blue  beauty  of  the  Lake,  the  country  pulsing 
with  verdure,  the  air  scented  again  with  the  blossoms  of  another  Spring,  while 
War  news  more  frightful  was  forever  trickling  in  thickly  and  steadily  to  sicken 
the  heart.  Noises  increasing  to  hubub  in  the  mind;  ears  ever  listening  and  strain- 
ing as  reports  grew  daily  worse. 

The  War  was  sweeping  all  things  into  a  fiery  gulf.  Neither  sins  nor  failures 
nor  interests  nor  wishes  could  be  washed  out  in  blood.  War  was  no  Heaven-sent 
chance.  It  could  not  cleanse.  It  polluted.  It  ceased  irrevocably  to  seem  noble; 
inexorably  showing  its  monstrous  lists  of  dead  and  dying.  It  was  robbing  life 
of  all  innocence.  Iniquities  that  could  never  be  cleansed  multiplied,  event  followed 
event  with  pitiless  swiftness,  and  the  grief  of  our  neighbours  was  my  grief  too. 

So  much  happened  in  that  moment  when  I  heard  of  his  death  that  all  external 
matters  left  absolutely  but  one  impression.  The  son  and  brother  had  met  the 
death  all  glorious.  My  hero  of  dreams  would  never  return.  It  smashed  all  things 
for  the  time.  A  swirl  of  sorrow  swept  me  like  a  wave  when  after  that  terrible 
news  I  first  stood  before  his  stricken  Father.  I  saw  only  the  broken  man — heard 
only  his  broken  speech  with  no  utterance  of  hope.  "My  son — my  son — Faithful 
unto  death — my  son — He  gave  everything — we  have  nothing." 

"Oh!"  I  cried  piteously — for  something  shook  me  like  a  stab — "Can  he  be 
really  dead?"  I  shall  never  forget  that  slow  careful  articulation,  the  tremulous 
emotional  yet  controlled  anguish  as  his  eyes  of  sadness  looked  intently  at  me. 
It  was  almost  as  if  he  thought  I  could  understand.  "My  son — my  son — he  did 
well."  It  was  painful,  mysterious,  heart-wringing  and  I  felt  submerged,  unable 
to  speak  a  single  word.  Life  for  the  moment  had  become  blackness  and  all  the 
Argosies  adventured  were  lost.  That  noble  chivalrous  young  Soul  killed — only 
one  of  many  thousands.  It  embittered — It  destroyed  for  a  time  a  certain  sort 
of  Patriotism  which  is  unconscious  and  runs  underground. 

It  is  fortunate  that  the  grief  of  children  and  of  the  young  and  inexperienced 
is  often  like  a  summer  shower.  It  is  intense  enough  while  it  lasts  and  a  contin- 
uance of  such  seeming  despair  would  wreck  and  injure  the  growing  life.  As  it 
is — As  it  was,  my  whirlwind  of  emotion,  of  agonized  sympathy,  of  vicarious  energy 
of  loss,  passed  and  left  me  without  disastrous  results.  It  had  all  been  a  dream, 
a  dear,  beautiful  dream,  but  one  without  reality  outside  my  own  heart-expanding 
ardour.  He  had  never  needed  or  called  me,  and  slowly  the  belief  died  that  1  had 
been  personally  bereaved.     I  felt  wistful,  sometimes  sad,  but  darkness  fell  away. 

My  home  was  permanence.  It  was  an  anchorage.  In  that  atmosphere  no 
one  was  crippled.   No  one  interferred  or  demanded   submission   and   made  sacri- 

Pagt    I'jn 


Book     IV 


lMy  Covenant  was  with  him,  of  Life  and  Peace" 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


fices  seem  necessary.  We  never  worried  each  other,  perhaps  unconsciously  be- 
cause children  with  Parents  recognized  the  unequivocal  right  each  person  had  to 
his  own  views,  his  own  share  of  freedom.  That  was  wonderful — turmoil,  trouble, 
noises  of  War  themselves  almost  at  times  melted  away  like  shapes  of  dreams  or 
unsubstantial  clouds.  Freedom  added  to  responsibilities  which  alas!  I  did  not 
recognize.  It  may  have  accentuated  my  selfishness,  I  may  have  lacked  nobility, 
believing  so  much  mine  of  right  and  calmly  taking  constant  indulgence  and  safe 
shelter  for  granted;  but  according  to  my  lights  comfort,  cheer,  and  peace  was 
inherent  in  home  life,  was  the  very  order  of  the  Universe. 

Then  and  now  it  seems  to  me  that  every  single  human  being  is  entitled  to 
his  own  happiness. 

I  can  quite  frankly  recall  Patriotic  sermons,  talks  and  lectures,  appeals  and 
exhibitions,  objections  to  this  or  that  feeling  and  expression,  and  being  surrounded 
by  suggestions  of  a  new  and  ugly  world — but  certain  details  and  some  important 
ones  of  that  time  strangely  enough  have  largely  escaped  me,  and  I  cannot  exercise 
my  memory  now  to  complete  satisfaction,  save  upon  personal  incidents  and 
seemingly  small  household  events. 

One  morning  my  Mother's  smile  seemed  radiant  as  she  looked  up  from  a  letter, 
and  I  heard  the  words — "Canada  is  so  far  away;  but  Sarah  says  they  have  started 
— To  think,  Orrington,  she  can  make  the  journey  from  Toronto,  and  that  I  shall 
have  my  Grandmother  here  in  my  home  at  last."  And  answering  my  look  of 
surprise— "You  cannot  remember  your  Great-Grandmother  Patten;  she  was 
only  one  among  Great-Aunts  and  Uncles  in  the  homestead  in  Maine  when  you 
were  so  small.  Now  she  will  visit  us  while  Mother  is  here  and  we  will  be  four 
generations  all  together." 

"Is  Great-Grandmother  Patten  coming?"  "Yes  with  your  Aunt  Sarah." 
In  the  anticipations  and  preparations  for  that  memorable  visit  life  seemed  sud- 
denly more  secure.  The  days  slipped  swiftly  and  the  welcome  accorded  that 
Head  of  the  Family  (in  point  of  years)  was  most  enthusiastic.  My  Aunt  Sarah 
had  a  proud  moment  when  they  were  handed  out  from  the  train  in  Chicago. 
The  polite  conductor  said,  "Let  me  assist  your  Mother,  Madam" — And  my 
Aunt  pluming  herself  on  the  fact,  replied  with  dignity — "My  Grandmother, 
Sir."     This  she  recounted  to  us  with  great  glee. 

It  was  long,  long  ago,  the  grave-spangled  Country  had  been  granted  no  rest; 
but  I  found  a  strange  entertainment  in  merely  watching  the  trim  little  figure 
of  a  very  old  lady  who  carried  a  cane,  though  leaning  on  it  very  lightly.  She  had 
grey-blue  eyes,  a  small  finely  shaped  head,  a  fully  ruffled  white  cap  under  which 
shone  a  band  of  brown  hair;  a  front  piece,  I  suppose,  or  a  wig,  I  never  knew.  She 
wore  always  a  snowy  white  handkerchief  crossed  over  to  the  waist  of  her  black 
dress,  skirt  very  full — bombazine  in  the  morning,  silk  for  evening.  Slight  and 
not  tall,  Great-Grandmother  Patten  sat  in  the  best  room  in  the  best  chair,  a  figure 
well  fitted  to  inspire  homage.  The  papers  were  brought  to  her  first  every  morn- 
ing. She  had  seen  three  Wars,  the  American  Revolution,  the  War  of  1812,  and 
now  the  great  Civil  Conflict,  in  every  detail  of  which  she  took  the  keenest  interest. 
Alert  mentally  she  followed  the  course  of  events  accurately.  She  was  to  me  a 
monument  of  age  and  distinction,  and  I  felt  attraction  in  the  minutest  detail  of 
her  appearance. 

Once,  when  I  listened  to  my  Mother's  pride  in  some  story  of  her  Grandmother's 
early  charms,  I  thought  I  discovered  a  shadow  of  elegance  under  recognized 
limits;  but  it  is  sad  to  remember  I  was  never  drawn  near,  that  I  never  tried  to 
learn  or  listen,  and  was  only  profoundly  interested  in  the  ease  of  her  movements, 
in  her  impeccable  self  command,  reserved  manner  and  speech. 

I  think  my  Great-Grandmother  must  have  had  real  amiability  of  disposition. 
I  could  never  imagine  her  behaving  harshly  or  showing  conscious  injustice.  Her 
daughter,  Grandmother  Gray,  was  of  the  same  type;  but  her  smile  was  not  of  the 
same  sweetness.  Neither  of  them  were  frank  and  spontaneous  nor,  as  I  remember, 
very  liberal  in  tone.  I  think  I  must  have  inherited  my  exuberant  enthusiasm, 
intense  admiration  of  people  and  things,  love  of  nature  or  whatever  dazzles  the 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


senses,  from  other  forebears.  She  seemed  to  watch  us  all  with  benign  satisfaction; 
her  gentle  old  face  lighted  up  at  times,  with  more  than  passing  interest. 

Once  she  looked  me  in  the  face,  that  wise  and  aged  one,  as  I  entered  to  make 
my  usual  reverence  and  say  good-morning,  and  asked  in  her  remarkably  pleasant 
voice — for  hers  was  still  a  vigorous  and  practical  intelligence — "Child,  exactly 
how  old  are  you?"  and  to  my  immediate  reply,  "Why  I'm  nearly  nineteen,"  she 
made  prompt  rejoiner,  "And  I — I  am  nearly  ninety." 

Threescore  years  and  ten  yawned  between  us.  It  was  an  impassable  gulf. 
She  was  a  woman  of  fewwords  and  invited  no  confidences  but  how  much  I  could 
have  learned  had  I  sat  at  her  feet  and  in  my  own  buoyant  youth  talked  intimately, 
got  behind  that  worship  of  service  and  more  or  less  formal  speech  we  all  observed, 
and  secured  happily  some  glimpse  of  the  reality  of  feeling  and  the  wide  experience 
behind  her  daily  expression;  doubtless  in  harmony  with  characteristics,  but  who 
can  tell?  Now  she  looked  at  me  meaningly — "Before  I  was  your  age  Susan  was 
born  and  your  Grandmother  wasn't  my  first  either — but  she  bettered  me  for 
she  had  eleven  children.  Yes — Sam  Gray  saw  her  when  she  was  hardly  sixteen 
and  fell  in  love  right  off,  and  they  were  married  and  your  Mother  and  her  brother 
Horace  were  playing  round  before  my  Susan  was  your  age."  My  eyes  were  fixed 
in  wonder  but  further  revelations  were  spoiled  at  Mother's  entrance. 

"I  was  telling  the  child,  Cornelia,  how  slow  she  was  to  get  married;  girls  are 
not  what  they  were  in  my  day." 

"But  I  wasn't  married  until  twenty-three,"  interrupted  my  Mother  gently, 
laying  her  hand  softly  on  the  small  wrinkled  one  that  tapped  the  cane,  but  she 
murmured  on  as  if  not  hearing — "Yes  I  know — your  Father  kept  you  and  Or- 
rington  waiting  seven  years — Sam  was  stubborn — he  had  notions — It  was  a 
shame,  for  you  would  have  married  at  sixteen  too,  if  you  could.  Sam  thought 
no  one  good  enough  for  you."    And  Mother  laughed  outright! 

"But  Grandmother,  I  can't  let  my  only  daughter  go,  I  can't  lose  her,  and  I  don't 
want  to  lose  her  for  a  long  time  yet."  "And  I'm  never  going  to  leave  you,  Mother," 
I  broke  in  passionately — and,  thank  God,  I  never  did,  although  only  seven  years 
after — so  near — so  near  to  it. 

For  ten  months  then  of  an  unclouded  engagement  it  was  the  double  life  of 
recreated  Eden  of  which  I  dreamed.  And  then  arrangements  for  a  consummation 
that  would  indeed  have  carried  me  far  from  her.  Bridesmaids  in  the  house — 
festivities  going  forward — and  the  sudden  break!  It  was  an  execution.  I  knew 
not  then,  as  I  know  not  now,  where  or  what  is  the  limit  of  just  blame  with  my 
temperament  and  creed  of  self-help  and  self-responsibility.  Imagination  is  the 
supernal  faculty.  It  surcharges  time  with  expressiveness.  But  where  are  perfect 
scales  to  determine  an  ultimate  balance? 

I  know  so  well  the  events  of  that  time  to  which  I  now  refer  again — the  test 
in  that  wonderful  period  of  conflict,  the  rough  road  for  a  little,  over  which  I  traveled. 
It  was  an  engulfing  time.  In  one  flash  had  been  typified  for  me  the  whole  character 
of  the  man  I  had  trusted.  As  far  as  his  letters  and  assurances  and  his  pledged 
promise  went  he  was  but  a  weaver  of  words;  and  they,  in  eloquence  and  apparent 
devotion,  had  established  me  on  a  primrose  path  of  happiness — no  moment  or 
hour  suggested  the  unthinkable  of  disillusion  and  disappointment.  I  was  too 
exultant,  too  satisfied,  too  riotous  and  triumphant.  The  lesson  I  received  was 
needed — and  I  have  lived  to  rejoice  in  it,  for  this  I  know  that  the  seeming  defeat, 
the  dread  and  the  bitter  sense  of  lost  faith,  the  humiliation  of  even  such  an  end 
was  a  blessing  in  disguise.  And  it  is  now  in  full  recognition  of  that  truth  that  I 
give  thanks  for  the  assurance  of  all  my  later  years,  for  my  long  life  in  the  home 
so  beloved  with  the  precious  ones  so  sacred. 

Happiness  comes  through  ourselves  if  only  we  are  true,  and  struggle  to  avoid 
the  stumbling-blocks  of  weakness  and  selfishness  and  vanity  and  spiritual  avarice 
— demanding  as  a  right  what  we  have  not  won.  All  things  move  on  toward  their 
decline  and  I  have  dwelt  on  my  illusions  then,  only  because  they  concerned  at 
the  time  the  deepest  and  tenderest  emotions;  but  in  doing  so  I  have  leaped  far 
forward  beyond   the  happenings  of  that  year,  and   must   now   return   to  the   tar 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


earlier  period  of  which  I  was  writing,  when  I  was  so  intensely  alive  and  when  peace 
was  upon  all  I  loved.  "Peace  be  upon  this  house"  was  written  over  its  lintel; 
and  then  and  there  my  Great-Grandmother  represented  so  much  that  was  mys- 
terious in  its  silence  and  stirred  me  to  wonder  what  old  age  could  be  like? 

I  have  felt  very  often  that  Great-Grandmother  Patten  might  have  become  a 
well  of  wisdom  to  draw  from,  and  all  I  knew  or  know  was  that  she  lived  in  Ottawa, 
Canada,  with  another  daughter;  that  she  had  been  married  twice  and  that  Grand- 
mother Gray  was  of  the  first  marriage,  and  born  a  Fulton.  Neither  Grandmothers 
could  have  ever  burned  with  enthusiasm,  or  exposed  themselves  to  any  suspicion 
of  weak-mindedness;  and  both  in  our  household  aroused  singular  deference,  ten- 
derness and  loyalty  in  every  expression.  My  Mother's  extreme  attention  showed 
itself  in  watchful  service  and  an  open  devotion.  In  a  sense  Ancestor  worship 
has  been  inherited  by  me. 

Nights  and  days  continued  large  and  lenient  in  absence  of  excitability,  and 
in  a  sense  wholly  individual  and  restricted  with  lives  so  narrow  and  circumspect. 
Life,  perhaps,  was  not  as  conductive  to  the  richer  development  of  service  as  to 
the  small  social  virtues,  but  I  have  good  cause  to  remember  that  nothing  ever 
disturbed  the  harmony  of  our  home  life.  The  War  progressed  and  finally  seemed 
to  afford  no  excellent  reasons  why  I  should  change  my  mode  of  comfortable  exist- 
ence. Our  Forces  which  had  first  been  crushed — then  advanced — then  succeeded, 
and  guns  were  hammering  through  those  ensuing  months.  It  was  ideals  and 
patriotism  that  appealed  in  pictures,  as,  so  far,  the  disastrous  effects  of  the  War 
had  not  touched  our  family.  Yet  here  and  there,  with  amazing  clearness,  stands 
out  the  vision  of  my  absorbed  and  ever  busy  Father.  There  lingers  with  me  the 
tones  of  his  voice  those  days  of  sacrificial  War-work  that  took  him  often  far  from 
us.  They  were  times  to  start  and  stare;  to  listen,  whenever  papers  were  shouted, 
or  people  called,  always  reading  and  talking  of  things  catastrophic. 

At  last  and  again  came  the  hour  when  my  whole  world  was  thrown  out  of 
perspective.  Father,  at  breakfast,  read  out  clearly  from  the  morning  paper, 
"GEORGE  CHANDLER  among  the  list  of  killed  today,"  and  I  too,  was  a  shadow 
in  a  world  of  shadows.  I  saw  again  those  dreadful  Battle-fields,  I  heard  afresh 
the  clamorous  calls  of  suffering  and  death.  The  vision  of  anguish  and  the  sound 
of  my  Father's  voice!  "How  sad — how  sad"  and  the  shock  acted  on  me  as  never 
before.  Something  dreadful — unbelievable  had  happened.  The  answer  of  my 
swift  convulsive  sobbing  amazed  and  startled  them. 

Across  all  the  gulf  of  those  years  I  feel  again  that  shaking  grief  and  queer 
sense  of  compassion  for  myself.  The  calamity  that  cast  over  the  gladness  of  life 
a  heavy  veil,  had  shut  my  world  in  a  heavy  fog.  I  had  lost  him — my  friend  was 
dead — I  was  only  his  "Little  Friend",  but  something  unrecognized,  unacknow- 
ledged had  bound  me  to  him. 

Always  his  words  of  approval  had  heartened  me,  and  sometimes  his  warm 
praise  had  been  like  appropriation  and  made  for  the  strange  subtlety  of  yielding 
and  a  mutual  understanding.  Did  I  not  belong  to  him?  He  had  almost  once 
said  such  words — "You  are  my  little  treasure,"  and  I  could  never  now  recapture 
the  joy  of  that  association  and  the  certainty  of  its  promise. 

I  have  the  feeling  of  being  separated  from  that  time  by  something  more  pro- 
found, more  significant  than  Calendar  years.  It  was  a  loss  that  could  never  be 
blotted  out.  The  shock  of  news  that  made  for  tragedy.  I  must  have  looked 
wild  and  pale  for  all  their  faces  had  blurred  before  my  eyes.  It  was  filling  me 
with  such  sickness  that  it  seemed  I  saw  the  act  accomplished.  What  I  had  heard 
must  have  been  a  strange  interpretation  of  some  Satanic  conflict.  I  needed  air  to 
catch  my  breath,  and  I  saw  tears  in  my  own  Mother's  eyes  as  she  ministered  to  me — 
an  unexpected,  unfeigned  pathos  and  sympathy  in  looks  and  words.  Her  im- 
mediate sense  of  my  needs,  her  comprehensive  sympathy,  and  soon  her  purpose 
and  efforts  were  to  find  a  way  of  escape. 

My  Mother  was  always  firm  as  well  as  gentle,  and  once  determined  her  action 
was  not  delayed.  She  had  the  kind  of  personality  and  power  that  diffuses  itself 
like  atmosphere  and  accomplishes  its  end  without  conflict.     She  had  envisaged 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


her  child  in  some  special  set  of  circumstances  that  would  expunge  dread  and  fear 
from  the  slate.  I  have  said  before  that  my  Mother  came  from  a  long  line  of  Mass- 
achusetts Puritans,  and  that  group  of  human  beings  frowned  upon  romantic 
nonsense.  But  there  was  in  her  a  vein  of  gentleness  that  matched  her  firmness. 
Verily!  she  must  have  been  born  wise  as  well  as  tender.  I  have  said  this  before, 
I  have  said  also  how  we  never  went  in  opposition  to  her  wishes;  they  were  evidently 
so  wholly  unselfish  and  for  our  benefit,  advantage,  opportunity  or  pleasure.  Never 
in  my  life,  thank  God  I  can  repeat  it,  did  I  hear  a  disrespectful  word  from  one  of 
her  children.  We  loved  her.  She  loved  us.  We  felt  her  power.  There  was  a 
peculiar  dignity  in  the  way  she  spoke,  obedience  was  natural  and  easy.  It  was 
not  that  she  was  unduly  serious,  yet  not  gay  and  light.  My  life  seemed  cast  on 
simple  curves,  but  I  have  always  felt  the  power  beyond  ourselves  and  it  spoke 
in  me  then  encompassed  by  dreads,  fears,  doubts,  without  wings  of  confidence. 
Days  grew  dull,  toneless,  as  remembrance  and  revolt  began  to  take  all  colour 
from  them.  For  the  first  time  I  was  not  well.  There  was  a  band  around  my  head. 
It  pressed  against  the  temples.  It  made  me  feel  queer — a  heavy  and  ever  heavier 
weight  in  my  heart.  I  was  driven  about  like  a  leaf  or  like  a  storm-beaten  plant. 
Something  precious  had  been  swept  out  of  my  life.  I  could  not  quench  the  rising 
in  me  which  was  like  the  hunger  of  a  soul. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  her?"  I  heard  Grandmother  ask  with  a  kind  of  open 
impatience — "She  seems  to  brood  most  of  the  time,"  and  Mother  answered  quietly, 
"she  has  been  long  settled  in  one  groove, and  has  met  with  a  real  sorrow;  I  think 
a  change  is  imperative." 

Fear  had  hovered  near  and  distaste  for  exertion  grown — I  had  lost  interest 
and  brooded  and  brooded  until  even  natural  expression  at  home  was  becoming 
fitful  and  feeble  in  me — It  was  an  electric  current  of  some  sort,  excitement  and 
interest,  that  in  some  way  Mother  felt  was  needed  to  restore  calm  and  bring  back 
joyousness.  I  do  not  think  she  made  the  mistake  of  spoiling  me;  but  she  had 
always  indulged  me,  and  neither  weakly  nor  blindly.  Now  she  thought  the  move 
must  be  radical,  and  a  return  to  New  York  had  evidently  appealed  as  both  wise 
and  desirable;  something  to  give  me  radiant  days  again  with  the  promise  of  Music 
and  its  uplift. 

It  was  I  that  shrank  a  little  at  first,  and  made  the  objection  that  no  high 
scholarship  could  ever  be  secured  at  Van  Norman's,  that  their  teaching  was  not 
worth  a  Tinker's  zero.  Mother  laughed  a  little  at  my  frank  distaste  on  that 
score — "But  you  were  all  the  readier  there  for  adventure:  apparently  there  was 
some  sort  of  electric  current  to  keep  you  so  joyous.  Your  musical  advantages, 
judging  from  your  enthusiasm,  must  appeal.  They  are  certainly  worth  finishing 
the  year.  Don't  repeat  shadows  of  failure."  And  I  was  instantly  spurred  to 
hear  that  Mr.  Huss  would  gladly  teach  me  again,  and  had  consented  at  special 
request  from  home  to  take  me  with  him  whenever  possible,  and  would  secure 
tickets  for  whatever  he  desired  for  me,  as  a  pupil,  to  hear.  Also  that  arrangements 
as  a  "Parlour  Boarder"  would  relieve  me  from  all  school  routine  and  restraints. 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  had  felt  inertia,  almost  indifference.  Wounds 
for  which  no  other  is  responsible  seemed  underneath  all  that  I  tried  to  do.  Such 
were  mine.    One  has  to  be  re-born  to  get  rid  of  mental  and  spiritual  loss. 

To  see  them  all  again  in  their  home  life,  the  dear  home  on  Madison  Avenue, 
and  receive  such  kindly  demonstrations  of  regard,  gave  me  new  value  in  my  own 
eyes.  I  seemed  to  have  earned  true  treasure  in  the  generous  affection  that  im- 
mediately included  me  as  one  of  them. 

Some  hours  I  felt  feverish  with  delight,  as  when  Eliza  talked  with  me  about 
her  engagement,  which   had   renewed  power  over  my  imagination. 

I  always  remember  the  look  of  her  in  various  gowns — such  pictures  made 
me  love  her  personality  more  and  more;  her  face,  her  figure,  her  arms  and  hands 
and  unapproachable  grace  of  movement.  Eliza  knew  a  great  deal  about  dress — 
clothes  and  how  to  wear  them — and  for  the  first  time  its  great  importance  was 
borne  in  upon  me  by  comments  about  my  own  selections  or  choice  of  certain  toi- 
lettes.   The  being  openly  told  I  "must  get  myself  up  well,  make  myself  attractive 

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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


and  ready  to  capture  hearts,  or  I'd  lose  out  among  masculine  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances," threw  new  light  on  the  path.  "They  are  your  trappings  of  privilege," 
Eliza  once  said  with  a  curious  smile. 

I  recall  among  their  friends  several  who  later  became  great  Peeresses  of  Eng- 
land. Jennie  Jerome  and  Consuelo  Ysnager  married  into  the  very  highest  aris- 
tocracy, a  Ducal  circle  where  loyalty  or  remembrance  of  their  own  country  or 
their  own  people  was  never  adequately  expressed. 

In  that  steady  current  there  was  a  sort  of  joyous  novelty  appealing  and  draw- 
ing one  far  from  profitless  brooding  and  fruitless  speculation.  Digested  wealth 
and  social  position  certainly  made  them  all  articulate  only  in  the  rank  to  which 
they  were  lifted.    The  crudest  things  in  life  are  the  things  we  do  to  ourselves. 

That  great  surgeon,  Dr.  Sims,  was  still  working  for  his  ideal,  a  well  fitted, 
fine  Hospital  for  Women,  for  the  idea  and  future  erection  of  which  he  was  entirely 
responsible.  It  was  the  first  in  the  country  and  his  charm,  influence  and  eloquence, 
enthused  and  interested  all  those  he  approached.  Great  houses,  closed  to  the 
outside  world  were  open  for  entertainments  to  add  subscriptions  and  secure  funds, 
and  I — fortunate  child — went  with  them  to  many  noted  places,  and  caught  glimpses 
of  interiors  and  homes  rigidly  closed  except  to  social  leaders  and  sovereigns  of 
that  period.  They  remained  forever  as  rather  quaint  and  stately  pictures  of 
"Ye  olden  time".  Children,  or  young  people  as  outsiders,  see  things  far  more 
clearly  than  the  sophisticated  grown-ups  imagine. 

Eliza  with  peculiar  grace,  attended  to  all  amenities  and  courtesies  with  full 
sense  apparently  of  the  distinction  it  conferred.  Her  eyes  always  seemed  to  smile 
in  harmony  with  her  lips.  Mary  I  learned,  had  never  reappeared  on  the  scene. 
Granville,  the  oldest  son,  whom  I  had  never  seen  and  rarely  heard  mentioned, 
had,  it  appeared,  fallen  a  victim  the  very  first  weeks  of  the  War.  The  little  sons, 
Harry  and  Willie,  were  away  at  school.  Fanny  had  grown  out  of  childhood  with 
a  purity  of  expression  and  features  that  charmed  and  promised  the  attraction 
that  all  those  Sims'  daughters  possessed.  And  little  Florrie,  still  playing  with 
her  dolls,  was  already  unusual  and  almost  startling  in  beauty.  In  after  years 
I  thought  Florence  Sims,  later  the  wife  of  Dr.  John  A.  Wyeth,  the  most  beautiful 
woman  with  one  exception  (that  fascinating  and  supreme  sovereign  of  her  art, 
Teresa  Carreno)  I  had  ever  seen. 

Certain  impressions  slip  off  my  mind  like  rain  drops  off  a  grave,  but  always 
of  things  that  have  never  come  close,  they  become  vague  and  uncertain  when  or 
because  of  no  special  importance.  Other  things,  seemingly  small,  are  clear  and 
living  within  me  and  I  hug  every  thought  and  reminder.  So  it  is  that  I  am  not 
free  where  emotions  are  aroused  or  senses  stirred.  There  is  no  way  out  of  the 
maze.     Those  who  are  magnetic  attract  invincibly. 

Society,  as  I  had  glimpses  of  it  that  year,  and  later,  showed  me  some  celebrities, 
and  no  absence  of  real  people  with  real  brains,  but  having  cherished  a  real  con- 
viction that  there  was  something  else,  something  wonderful  that  must  come  to 
me,  the  general  buzz  of  life  just  regained  was  not  at  first  quite  enough,  even  with 
the  unbargained  circumstance  that  gave  me  so  many  unexpected  and  amusing 
social  experiences.  Someway  I  missed  some  message  in  that  atmosphere  of  il- 
lusion, some  stir  of  electricity  for  brain  as  well  as  heart,  something  really  or  wholly 
mine  as  I  took  my  way  in  that  one  channel — drinking  my  fill  of  the  hours. 

I  know  life  well  enough  now  to  believe  that  the  meetings  of  individuals  are  not 
really  casual  as  they  seem.  They  almost  invariably  prepare  for  events, and  disturb 
or  delight  us  in  singular  fashion  if  any  relationship  becomes  real.  I  was  born  destined 
by  the  Stars  to  love  and  be  faithful  to  my  friends.  One  may  become  relatively 
blind  to  opposing  views,  experiences  or  attitudes,  and  yet  one  is  hard,  or  simple 
or  complex,  and  reveals  himself  all  unconsciously  in  unexpected  fashion.  Who  can 
give  the  key  to  our  character,  study  our  expressions  and  tastes,  and  not  see  in 
individual  as  well  as  collective  history  how  we  are  blind,  or  guilty  of  injustice, 
unfairness  and  partiality,  and  so  remain  absolutely  foreign  to  each  other  as  to 
ourselves?  I  touched  that  life  about  me  with  the  blessed  conviction  of  unalterable 
friendship  and  it  touched  me. 


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The  Theatres  were  happy  hunting  grounds  and  I  saw  many  of  the  old  plays, 
classic  and  otherwise.  At  Wallack's  and  the  Union  Square,  and  later  Booth's 
and  Madison  Square,  I  saw  comedies  and  tragedies  and  grew  someway  familiar 
with  the  Stage.  I  saw  and  listened  to  Actors  that  approached  their  roles  with 
respect  if  not  reverence.  And  I  can  recall  those  great  Artists  of  their  time,  Fechter, 
and  Mary  Anderson,  Clara  Morris,  and  Adelaide  Neilson,  and  above  all  and  al- 
ways that  King — Edwin  Booth.  In  the  Musical  world,  Christine  Nillson  and 
Clara  Louise  Kellogg  and  the  towering  trio  that  I  heard  first  in  "Trovatore", 
Grisi  and  La  Grange  and  Mario,  and  it  was  also  at  the  Sims'  after  the  War 
that  I  encountered  often  the  beautiful  Adelaide  Neilson,  and  the  elder  Sothern 
and  many  other  fine  Diners-out,  ever  witty  and  sparkling  with  merriment;  and 
in  musical  lines  I  met  there  the  great  Anton  Rubinstein,  and  Wienawski,  and 
Vieuxtemps — all  welcome  and  at  home  in  that  brilliant  drawing  room.  I  met 
so  many  people,  I  went  to  so  many  places,  I  saw  life  at  such  different  angles,  and 
I  began  to  fancy  myself  largely  participating  in  the  affairs  of  the  world;  but  I 
judged  so  few  people  realistically, I  saw  in  them  not  what  was  there  necessarily 
but  my  ideals  mostly. 

I  beheld  works  of  Art  with  ever  increasing  pleasure.  It  was  a  veritable  delight 
to  go  to  gatherings  and  exhibitions  where  I  met  certain  well  known  Artists,  es- 
pecially the  dramatic  ones,  and  a  few  who  wielded  the  brush  or  the  pen,  who  amazed 
me  with  their  intuition  of  the  beautiful  and  apparent  longing  for  perfection.  Nev- 
ertheless time  had  not  come  to  tell  me 'relentlessly  that  so  many  dreams  were  but 
dreams — nothing  more — and  that  in  every  mood  lies  the  suggestion  of  its  opposite. 

I  grew  to  believe  in  those  light  days  of  ignoring  difficulties  that  I  understood 
life;  and  yet  life,  except  for  the  element  of  revived  spirits,  was  going  on  exactly 
as  before,  with  the  added  faith  that  I  was  winning  my  way,  step  by  step  through 
the  unseen  mediums  into  newer  and  greater  independence.  I  had  unshakable 
faith  in  my  powers  of  judgment — and  I  had  none.  Had  I  not  repeatedly  heard 
that  too  often  and  too  openly  heart  led  head?  Yet  nothing  had  ever  broken  down 
my  self-confidence,  which  to  have  lost  would  indeed  have  sapped  strength.  My 
eyes  were  not  being  strained  to  see,  or  my  mind  to  grasp  and  grapple;  my  heart 
was  fed  and  warmed,  and  my  soul  seemed  strengthened  and  widened.  My  char- 
acter was  hardening  or  yielding — and  Character  is  destiny — it  writes  a  man's 
life  beyond  possibility  of  erasure.  That  present  filled  my  thoughts  and  feelings 
because  with  the  turning  of  the  tide,  the  passage  of  bright  days  once  more,  those 
ties  were  growing  stronger  and  taking  deeper  hold. 

From  a  medley  of  impressions  not  one  will  come  out  sharply  to  explain  the 
fact  that  knowing  the  Sims  were  Southerners  and  must  inevitably  sympathize 
with  the  South,  and  sustain  its  Cause  in  feeling  if  not  act,  I  never  realized  myself 
under  false  colours  in  actually  living  with  them  every  "week-end"  exactly  as 
before. 

It  is  easy  to  get  absorbed  in  the  life  of  others,  and  days  with  my  opportunities, 
and  the  generous  affection  that  always  welcomed  me,  were  vividly  interesting 
and  aroused  me  keenly  to  demonstrative  expression.  I  found  no  occult  change 
in  myself,  only  ideas  crowded  into  my  mind  and  I  talked  exactly  as  I  felt  with 
absolute  freedom  and  implicit  confidence.  I  never  had  that  terrible  curse  of 
self-consciousness  when  I  talked.  I  know  I  was  frank,  spontaneous  and  trustful 
and  I  think  I  was  always  unaffected.  In  the  charm  of  that  environment  and  the 
companionship  it  created,  I  revelled  more  and  more.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have 
been  less  contented,  less  forgetful,  less  self-sufficient  and  less  satisfied,  but  we 
are  so  rarely  what  we  ought  to  be.  Suffering  was  still  everywhere  and  the  Country 
rocking  with  dissensions.  Something  had  begun  to  sleep  in  mc.  The  soul  after 
a  high  temperature  suddenly  cools  in  a  bath  of  kindness  that  can  resemble  a  tem- 
porizing process,  and  I  felt  a  flame  of  wholesome  joy  under  the  action  of  forces 
I  could  not  always  understand.  Perhaps  it  is  all  the  quickening  of  the  mind  that 
needs  no  other  justification;  healthy  and  young  and  naturally  blithe  of  heart 
I  no  longer  listened  to  the  clash  of  battles  or  heard  the  striking  of  swords  o\-  fell 
"The  State  of  Siege". 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


All  these  following  incidents  and  events  of  my  long  gone  past  wear  the  guise 
still  of  eternal  novelty,  because  reminiscences  of  when  the  flowers  were  fresh, 
the  marble  of  character  being  chiseled,  the  ideas  and  ideals,  feelings  and  experiences 
brought  into  being  again,  again  become  clear  and  unalterable  as  the  elements. 
The  intense  pathos  of  the  young  and  romantic  makes  for  wistful  poignancy  of 
longing  that  bites  more  and  more,  or,  according  to  temperament,  less  and  less  into 
the  soul. 

It  would  have  seemed  like  a  crime  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  nature  or  humanity. 
I  saw  so  little  that  was  not  artistic  and  I  listened  to  so  little  that  was  not  amusing. 
My  taste  for  so  many  things  was  being  formed.  Nevertheless  although  it  all 
fitted  into  my  dream  of  life,  the  dream  that  the  drums  and  terrors  had  deadened, 
I  am  sure  I  was  extremely  shallow  and  callow  and  that  nothing  made  a  really 
transforming  effect.  My  interest  quickened  and  intensified  itself  on  individuals — 
pleasant  emotions  shook  me  so  that  nothing  in  me  for  the  time  sat  in  judgment — 
and  War  grew  afar  off.     It  was  enough  to  bask  in  youth  and  high  spirits.. 

The  lovely  household  had  blossomed  forth  to  make  me  admire  and  appreciate 
afresh,  to  experience  fresh  and  legitimate  pride  in  their  affection,  so  that  I  was 
never  tempted  to  analyze  thought  and  heard  no  voices  across  great  distances, 
I  was  merely  living  with  the  intense  personal  passion  of  the  moment.  Achieve- 
ment did  not  call  and  failure  did  not  daunt.  I  was  constantly  over-stimulated 
and  forgot  to  keep  my  feet  upon  the  earth.  I  saw  things  even  there  about  me 
faintly,  and  was  less  and  less  sure  of  their  significance.  There  were  many  enigmas 
but  the  War  slipped  into  distance. 

I  can  never  forget  how  my  heart  leaped  with  joy,  and  a  new  recognition  that 
thrilled  me  afresh,  whenever  I  was  with  Eliza;  and  I  ceased  to  offer  unsolicited 
opinions  and  grew  less  and  less  certain  of  myself.  Yet  nothing  in  that  atmosphere 
seemed  unreal  to  me, while  there  was  in  a  deep  sense  perhaps  very  little  that  to 
thinkers  and  workers  and  warriors  was  real.  Once  I  had  tried  with  contemptibly 
insufficient  words  to  tell  Eliza  of  those  months  of  excitement  at  home,  and  of  the 
death-strokes  that  had  threatened  to  change  me  so  utterly.  She  said  nothing 
of  the  great  rending  Cause  itself, only  looked  at  me  a  little  wistfully — "You  have, 
it's  true,  changed,  but  after  all  we  are  going  through  that  is  natural."  And  avoid- 
ing the  subject  with  repressive  effort  she  compelled  herself  to  laugh  and  talk  with 
a  fair  semblance  of  her  own  care-free  brightness  and  gaiety. 

There  was  something  so  disarming  and  fascinating  aboutthem  all.  The  Mother, 
large,  benignant,  and  a  bit  heavy,  sat  almost  always  in  the  same  chair  to  which 
she  gave  somewhat  the  semblance  of  a  throne.  She  had  a  settled  manner  much 
inclined  to  reserve,  and  seldom  joined  in  what  interested  the  others.  But  she 
smiled  genially  and  gave  marks  of  approbation  so  that  whatever  we  did  all  fore- 
bodings were  instantly  banished.  She  roused  to  activity  only  for  her  daily  drive 
in  the  Park,  and  later  to  meet  the  wearied  husband  and  retire  to  their  private 
sitting-room  for  rest  or  confidential  interchanges.  Several  times  I  have  seen  him 
on  the  couch  there,  recounting  to  the  woman  he  loved  whatever  he  chose  to  share 
of  the  day's  investigations  and  operations. 

I  have  read  that  a  man's  experience  is  the  externalization  of  his  own  thinking. 
Dr.  J.  Marion  Sims  was  the  most  original,  brilliant,  daring  and  successful  opera- 
tor of  his  day  and  later  days.  A  great  genius,  an  Investigator  and  Discoverer, 
an  Inventor  of  Instruments,  one  of  Nature's  Noblemen,  with  all  the  assets  of  the 
great  Physician  and  he  well  deserved  his  title  as  "The  Father  of  Gynecology." 
Certainly  in  that  eminent  Surgeon's  case  there  was  indeed  and  also  a  splendid 
outward  expression.  In  my  life  I  have  seen  but  few  men  so  attractive  or  who 
could  so  immediately  lay  claim  to  one's  affections.  How  I  delighted  to  be  near 
him,  and,  in  the  hiatus  of  months  since  I  had  been  away,  I  had  always  dwelt  with 
reverence  on  his  nature  and  disposition  as  well  as  tremendous  ascendency  in  his 
profession.  But  now  at  times  I  felt  in  the  head  of  that  house  a  sort  of  appealing, 
groping  sadness  that  strangely  without  analysis  or  understanding  seemed  like  a 
reaching  out  for  sympathy  or  a  struggling  loyalty.  Some  hidden  balance  seemed 
lost,  some  tranquilizing  power  no  longer  exercised  its  influence. 


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There  are  some  things  that  are  a  fantastic  memory,  and  I  cannot  say  just  how 
long  it  was  before  I  gained  any  sense  of  reality  of  my  own  position  in  contra- 
distinction to  theirs.  I  had  rallied  to  claims  of  courtesy  with  whomever  I  met. 
It  was  no  longer  a  part  of  imagination  to  wonder  who  they  were.  It  was  a  sense 
of  relief  to  enjoy  them.  I  was  not  poisoned  with  restlessness.  I  did  not  mind. 
Memory  and  opportunities  grew  happily  on  trees  as  far  as  I  was  concerned.  I 
was  such  an  idiot  I  had  never  once  suspected  the  possibility  of  actual  friendly 
contact  with  the  open  enemies  of  my  Country.  I  supposed  myself  understanding 
everything  that  was  said  and  done — except  its  real  meaning.  There  were  always 
foreign  and  distinguished  visitors  so  that  it  could  not  seem  strange  that  there 
were  far  fewer  New  Yorkers,  and  so  many  outsiders  and  travelers.  I  was  growing 
used  to  words  that  stopped  conversation  often  when  I  entered, where  guests  had 
gathered — "Come  here,  Nina — Let  me  present  you  to  Mr.  This,  or  Mrs.  That — 
or  Captain  Somebody  else" — and  with  sometimes  comprehensive  exchange  of 
glances — "This  you  know,  is  our  little  Yankee — very  dear  to  us. — We  don't  care 
what  opinions  she  holds  or  was  born  to!"  And  I  was  used  to  it,  althought  there 
were  undoubtedly  hours  when  I  was  not  honest  with  myself.  I  was  still  living, 
in  a  borderland  between  sleeping  and  waking,  the  terrible  certainty  of  differences, 
the  sharp  separation  of  sympathy,  the  impossibility  of  mutual  service,  had  not 
worked  its  division. 

Once  I  opened  the  door  of  the  big  and  temporarily  deserted  dining  room  to 
leave  a  message  with  the  waitress,  and  was  surprised  to  see  Dr.  Sims  shut  up 
there  in  close  intimate  and  apparently  secret  conversation  with  a  tall,  austere 
looking  man;  both  so  intent  with  heads  so  near  together  that  I  instantly  drew 
back  and  felt  myself  an  intruder.  The  stranger  started  up  looking  at  me  with 
eyes  that  blazed  and  yet  in  an  abstract  unseeing  fashion.  But  my  name  was 
kindly  called  as  usual,  with  the  usual  introduction,  intimating  clearly  as  ever  my 
inheritance  of  opposing  sentiment.  The  stranger  eyed  me  sharply  with  an  un- 
pleasant glint  and  smile  from  the  lips  out.  It  struck  me  in  a  flash  his  peculiar 
glance — his  peculiar  voice — the  odd  inflection,  and  the  long-drawn  out  drawl  of 
his  commonplace  conventional  remark  as  he  seated  himself.  It  returns  to  me  as 
I  write,  and  is  one  of  the  instances  that  curiously  has  not  lost  poignancy  in  re- 
collection. I  remember  it  as  an  occasion  when  I  tried  to  answer  with  smiling 
sprightliness,  for  it  suddenly  seemed  as  if  whole  scenes  were  in  tumultous  move- 
ment; as  if  there  was  unrecognized  yet  sinister  amusement  in  the  flash  and  gleam 
of  his  eyes  fixed  on  Dr.  Sims,  and  something  exasperated  me  for  a  second — 
something  strangely  like  triumph  emanating  from  his  atmosphere.  Unrecog- 
nized thought  pushed  down  all  emotions  of  pleasure,  almost  of  courtesy.  It  might 
have  been  unrecognized  instinct  that  was  coming  to  the  rescue,  but  no  one  yet 
in  my  presence  had  obtruded  personal  views  or  challenged  mine.  And  hours  that 
followed  were  so  peaceful  that  it  was  difficult  to  believe  there  might  be  a  storm 
centre  here  or  anywhere  in  the  whole  wide  world  outside.  But  things  unseen  were 
suddenly  to  be  as  clearly  defined  as  things  seen,  tinged  in  the  vivid  colour  of  the 
sharply  personal.  The  Pendulum  swung  on — and  at  last  came  the  unforgettable 
evening  of  which  I  always  think  as  of  a  sudden  reverberating  bomb. 

I  had  felt  no  necessity  of  asserting  myself  until  that  fateful  hour  struck,  an- 
nouncing in  sinister  sound  something  that  sprang  upon  me  in  a  sentence,  gathering 
force  and  fury, and  forever  destructive  of  all  pretense  of  disguise.  But  still  un- 
consciously, forever  cultivating  my  own  idealism  and  making  emotional  demands 
on  myself,  I  was  yet  becoming  growingly  acute  as  a  social  observer;  learning 
what  witticisms  and  persiflage  and  social  coignage  of  the  lightest  meant,  without 
fully  knowing  it,  while  much  of  the  time  feeling  and  seeking  in  a  strange  yearning 
tenderness  as  far  removed  from  the  usual  intercourse  as  Sun  or  Stars.  I  was  all 
unsuspecting  of  the  tremendous  opening  gulf  between  us.  They  had  been  so 
careful,  so  considerate,  so  kind  and  generous  in  concealing  antipathies  and  re- 
bellion that  the  question  had  ceased  to  recur  or  thrust  itself.  1  had  never  heard 
one  word  in  their  midst  that  bade  me  pause  and  consider — and  the  blinding  fnght, 
the  blinding  fear  spiritual  and  physical  rushes  back  with  the  memory  ol  that  one 


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bitter  hour,  so  that  breath  again  seems  to  catch  and  strangle  in  the  throat  and  my 
heart  to  miss  a  beat. 

Oh!  then  indeed  I  was  driven  off  into  the  dark — dark — dark,  for  words  drove 
against  me  with  a  blow,  and  flew  a  signal  I  could  never  ignore  again. 

It  was  in  the  back  drawing  room  and  "Tea"  was  being  served  as  usual — a 
habit  belonging  only  to  that  house,  for  never  had  I  before,  nor  since,  met  anywhere 
else  the  gathering  at  so  late  an  evening  hour  (Ten  o'clock)  for  that  order  of  light 
refreshment.  As  I  approached  them  I  noticed  three  strangers,  men  of  fine  bearing, 
who  looked  at  me  somewhat  startled,  and  I  noticed  and  felt  Eliza's  appealing 
beauty;  she  was  a  living  poem  of  grace  and  charm  as  she  sat  behind  the  large  tray 
and  silver  urn.  And  I  noticed  that  the  wine  glasses  from  the  small  table  near, 
which  bore  usually  a  decanter  of  sherry,  had  just  been  filled.  At  the  call,  "Come 
join  us,  Nina",  which  had  hardly  died  out,  I  moved  into  the  circle,  and  at  that 
instant  with  a  quick  look  around,  one  of  the  men  lifted  his  glass  and  whispered 
under  breath — "Jefferson  Davis  and  the  Southern  Confederacy'" . 

Eliza,  herself  an  example  always  of  tact  and  delicacy,  was  suddenly  shaken 
out  of  her  tranquillity  by  that  open  and  defiant  Toast.  My  heart  gave  one  great 
bound  and  without  purpose,  without  thought  of  effect,  the  glass  I  had  been  smil- 
ingly offered,  slipped  and  shivered  from  my  hand.  It  was  melo-dramatic,  but 
not  intended. 

They  had  lifted  their  glasses,  held  to  their  lips,  gazed  at  each  other  for  a  second, 
almost  as  if  in  a  communion  of  love  before  those  bold  but  repressed  tones — "  To 
Jefferson  Davis  and  the  Southern  Confederacy".  It  was  loud  as  a  cannon — it  rung 
upon  my  ears — and  some  sensation  fought  and  hunted  and  struggled  in  me,  and 
some  part  of  myself  became  only  intense  listening,  as  if  I  had  lost  consciousness 
of  natural  surroundings,  while  the  black  horror  enveloped  me  in  a  cloud.  It  was 
so  unexpected  that  it  was  impious.  There  was  violence  and  passion  in  the  air, 
and  I  seemed  to  have  the  brain  of  an  inebriate. 

It  was  psychological  and  physiological  struggle  and  revolt.  Stupid  and  dazed 
I  could  marshal  no  forces  at  first  to  control  the  shock  and  recoil.  I  was  like  a 
traitor  to  the  Cause  in  that  glaring  hour  of  materialization,  as  they  all  gazed 
incredulous,  startled  and  angry.  The  eyes  of  one  had  contracted,  his  brows  drawn 
sharply  together  as  he  bent  on  me  a  look  of  fury.  He  was  a  tall  dark  man,  sallow 
faced  and  low-browed,  thick  hair  very  black  and  glossy,  very  erect  and  haughty 
in  bearing  and  not  devoid  of  personal  attraction. 

There  remains  always  a  certain  vagueness  about  the  other  two  of  that  trio; 
soldiers,  either  on  leave  or  who  had  run  the  blocade  perhaps;  a  vagueness  not 
due  wholly  to  imperfect  memory  but  to  an  incomprehensiveness  from  my  point  of 
view,  of  any  knowledge  or  idea  of  disguised  rebels  visiting  New  York,  and  in  the 
nature  of  things,  working  with  heart  and  brain  for  their  Cause.  Something  had 
filled  the  eyes  of  all  three  with  a  smouldering  flame.  They  stared  resentfully 
at  me  as  if  cheated  by  fate  of  their  hour  of  pleasure,  as  if  discovered  and  foiled, 
as  it  were,  by  one  utterly  at  variance,  utterly  disloyal  to  their  own  grimly  mag- 
nificent purpose  to  spot  and  demand  service  from  all  Southerners  whose  lot  was 
cast  where  they  could  immensely  serve  the  Confederate  Cause. 

What  right  had  I  there?  Who  was  I  to  be  like  a  spy  among  those  loyal  Southern- 
ers? I  can  never  express  that  horror-stricken  suggestion  of  being  one  with  those 
enemies  of  my  Country.  I  could  not  speak  a  sane  word.  All  the  forces  of  my 
intelligence  were  aroused;  visions,  that  explained  so  much  not  noticed  before, 
came  and  went,  but  my  faculties  were  not  clear.  The  mask  was  torn  away  and 
I  saw  certain  things  now  in  their  proper  light.  I  felt  sharply  how  that  whole 
household  was  Southern  through  and  through — that  Eliza's  whole  heart  must 
be  for  the  South.  Was  not  her  fiance,  Tom  Pratt,  with  Morgan's  men,  one  of  that 
famous  company  of  raiders,  as  was  his  friend  the  soldier  who  had  spoken? 

It  was  all  a  swift  incalculable  process — Why,  I  loved  Eliza,  I  loved  her  with 
a  love  woven  into  the  smallest  detail  of  our  life  together,  and  she  had  never  failed 
me!  We  could  not  be  enemies.  And  now  her  voice  released  dread  and  shook  off 
horror,  and  out  of  sight  and  sound,  swiftly  gone  like  a  thing  of  wind  and  vision, 


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was  the  awful  fear  as  I  caught  those  gentle  expressions  of  regret — "They  did  not 
know — they  would  never  have  spoken — they  thought  you  one  of  us,  and  not  one 
of  us  would  ever  hurt  you,  Nina.  Y\  hy  we  love  you — what  does  it  matter?" 
But  it  did. — Oh!  it  did — and  I  felt  it  was  just  retribution  for  ignoring  all  warnings. 
I  felt  vanquished. 

That  voice  human  and  beseeching  was  piercing  straight  to  my  heart.  How 
could  I  take  up  weapons  against  them?  They  had  never  disdained  me,  for  me  to 
shrink  or  throw  over  those  lovely  friends  would  be  demoralizing,  and  something 
beneficent  and  purifying  to  my  whole  being  spread  its  warm  wave,  and  Eliza's 
sympathetic  distress  pressed  me  forward  to  the  edge  of  speech.  But  still  dazed 
and  stupid  I  could  not  instantly  marshal  forces  to  combat  the  shock  and  recoil. 

They  were  still  watching  me,  expectantly  as  if  they  believed  in  another  out- 
burst— their  eyes  as  hard  as  a  wintry  sky — those  men — those  men,  with  their 
appearance  of  lightness  and  muscular  grace,  that  had  suddenly  disclosed  the  enemy 
and  made  me  so  horribly  afraid.  The  shrinking  revulsions,  the  waves  of  recoil 
had  rolled  over  all  expansive  impulses.  Every  instinct  had  stirred,  not  hidden 
nor  sheathed.  And  now  I  met  those  intent  defiant  faces — incredulous,  startled, 
angry — and  the  voice  that  had  seemed  sunk  back  within  myself  came  back,  and 
my  head  cleared.  My  knees  felt  weak;  but  something  had  snapped  back  in  my 
head.  I  lost  that  deathly  feeling  that  had  sickened  me  with  despair  and  disgust. 
Bewilderment  and  uncertainty  fled;  I  felt  cool,  cool  again — and  I  could  not  be 
startled  by  my  speech  or  by  them.  Something  had  touched  me  deep  down,  that, 
if  fanciful,  was  still  impassioned  and  tender,  and  before  had  only  answered  to 
music. 

The  worthlessness  of  all  enmities,  of  all  bitterness  in  association;  of  all  pos- 
sessions; of  everything  but  love  and  loyalty,  worked  swiftly  in  me.  Life  was  no 
longer  a  furious  parody.  Why  did  we  fight  each  other?  Why  couldn't  we  under- 
stand each  other?  How  could  we  hate  each  other?  There  suddenly  seemed 
comfort  in  inanimate  things — comfort  in  everything — nothing  was  meaningless — 
nothing  all  bad — we  were  all  helpless  in  the  grip  of  circumstance — but  we  ought 
not  to  be  held  forever  apart.  I  tried  to  speak  and  act  normally,  and  said  in  tones 
very  tremulous,  "  There  is  a  Toast — Could  we  not  drink — To  the  Right?" 

Eliza  caught  my  hand  and  whispered,  "You  darling,  you  darling,"  and  I  was 
no  longer  restless  under  the  steady  gaze  of  her  guests,  which  had  lightened  as  if 
the  culmination  was  relief.  Their  faces  were  no  longer  cold  and  expressionless, 
their  eyes  brightened,  hatred  had  died  out.  It  was  the  leader  himself,  the  dark 
austere  one,  who  lifted  his  refilled  glass  and  spoke  it  clearly — "Success  to  the  Right." 
The  flavour  of  that  wine  is  on  my  tongue  this  minute. 

Those  soldiers  were  Confederate  Officers  as  I  long  afterward  learned,  and 
"The  Leader"  was  an  Envoy  or  Representative  from  the  so-called  Confederate 
Government,  sent  by  their  President  to  search  out  and  consult  with  those  dis- 
tinguished Southerners  in  the  North  who  had  prestige  and  wielded  influence. 
But  we  had  met.  The  real  and  common  subject  between  us  was  the  human  heart 
which  remains  the  same  in  every  age.  Their  courteous  words  as  the  glasses  were 
set  down  assumed  Eliza's  manner — apologies  and  assurances — but  I  was  very 
tired  and  made  no  reply,  I  longed  only  for  flight.  I  wanted  to  chase  something 
away,  to  get  away  from  every  human  being. 

We  can  console  ourselves  for  separations — for  differences  or  for  the  silence 
even  of  those  we  love  best — but  are  humiliated  by  blindness  or  any  idea  of  being 
deceived.  The  flame  in  me  might  flicker,  but  it  burned,  it  burned.  I  was  afraid 
of  sudden  tears  and  a  collapse,  but  I  tried  to  smile  feebly  as  moving  off  I  turned  a 
backward  glance.  Then  I  saw  a  picture.  It  is  stamped  forever  on  brain  and  heart. 
I  saw  they  had  drawn  themselves  erect — I  saw  each  hand  had  stolen  up — /  saw 
they  stood  at  Salute. 

These  pictures  cannot  be  recalled  with  any  formula  to  work  magic  with — I 
had  looked  at  the  truth,  and  words  made  a  phantasmagoria  of  Ugly  things.  Hut 
flushed,  disconcerted  and  dismayed,  1  had  cried  out  against  any  sense  ol  degrada- 
tion iii  belonging  to  those  large  hearted  faithful  friends.     1   had  awakened  to  the 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood. 


motive  power  back  of  all  feeling  and  action;  a  belief,  if  not  understanding  of  our 
relation  that  hereafter  never  needed  words.  A  new,  infinitely  sweet  compassion 
was  born  while  yet  the  effect  of  those  poignant  moments  never  left  me. 

Ungovernable  instinct  still  works  and  its  memory  is  never  a  genial  or  palatable 
one.  I  can  see  the  humour  of  that  whole  scene — it  merits  no  laughter  even  now — 
the  traces  of  all  the  tragedy  and  comedy  was  in  the  incident.  I  can  never  forget 
what  I  may  here  have  poorly  described,  that  while  I  clung  desperately,  tenaciously 
to  my  own  ideas  and  beliefs,  many  things  had  become  insignificant  outside  of 
love  and  fealty. 

Eliza's  face  was  blanched  and  her  eyes  tear-drowned  as  she  greeted  me  days 
after  with  the  sobbing  announcement,  "Tom — Tom  has  been  taken  prisoner." 
I  stood  shiveringly,  thinking  of  all  the  soldiers  sent  to  that  Hell  of  battle — swallowed 
up — sons,  brothers,  friends,  lovers,  to  be  seen  no  more  on  earth,  and  thinking  of 
my  Prince  of  the  Fairy-Tale  and  our  beloved  George  Chandler.  Was  not  im- 
prisonment vastly  less  terrible  than  their  tragic  fate?  I  hated  to  see  her  pale  face 
show  such  fright,  she  was  tragic  for  the  moment.  It  was  for  the  second  time  only, 
the  first  when  she  had  told  me  of  Mary's  startling  marriage,  and  now  of  her  fiance 
as  a  prisoner,  that  I  had  ever  seen  her  graceful  calm  broken  or  her  self  control 
shattered. 

When  she  added  brokenly — "Papa  thinks — perhaps  they  can  get  him  ex- 
changed or  paroled — or  something.  Influence  must  get  him  out,  or  shorten  the 
time — Papa  has  gone  to  see  friends — and  we  must  send  messages." 

I  only  listened  and  wondered.  Her  man,  the  man  she  loved  had  not  been  sac- 
rificed as  had  so  many  thousands  of  others.  The  one,  the  great,  the  vital  thing 
was  not  missing  for  her,  and  grief  seemed  immoderate.  I  felt  her  good  fortune 
by  comparison,  thinking  of  the  agony,  fear  and  loneliness  of  those  utterly  bereft, 
deprived  of  what  had  made  life  so  bright.  Oh!  the  War — the  War,  the  wholesale 
giving  of  loved  ones  to  Death!  It  was  more  than  grim  fighting,  suffering,  wounds 
or  imprisonment.  It  was  to  women  something  infinitely,  terribly,  more.  And 
less  to  me  could  not  appeal  as  such  an  unnerving  blow. 

And  here  the  striking  difference  of  sentiment  and  act  stands  out  distinctive 
of  those  times.  When  that  Civil  Conflict  shook  out  Nation  the  very  atmosphere 
that  surrounded  us  differed  from  what  we  all  breathed  during  the  colossal  World 
War  that  struck  its  root  of  evil  deep  down  into  the  soil  of  all  countries  and  into 
the  souls  of  citizens. 

When  that  rebellion  expressed  itself  in  ugliest  forms  in  our  midst,  it  was  in- 
stantly crushed,  if  possible,  and  naturally  there  was  a  character  of  social  ostra- 
cism when  opposite  views  were  too  pronounced.  Yet  what  an  illustration  of 
magnanimity  and  faith  in  our  kind  was  Dr.  Sims'  being  permitted  to  retain 
place  and  position  without  surveillance,  or  the  poison  of  suspicion  and  aversion. 
It  showed,  after  all,  the  close  touch  with  our  fellow  men,  the  general  kindly  con- 
nection one  with  the  other.  We  were  somehow,  consciously  a  homogeneous  people. 
There  were  few  Aliens  and  no  one  feared  them.  It  was  a  peculiar  crisis — brother 
against  brother — a  great  moral  question  involved. 

But  we  were  Americans,  and  then  by  comparison  the  trait  most  manifest, 
away  from  the  Field  of  Battle  itself,  was  a  sort  of  humanness.  The  universal 
suspicion,  the  misery  of  refusing  freedom  of  word  or  look,  the  Secret  Service  hound- 
ing as  well  as  watching,  and  the  swift  internments,  were  alike  unknown. 

Has  not  this  that  so  menaces  the  Nations  today,  destroying  confidence  in  each 
other,  the  dreadful  divisions  in  sentiment  and  service,  the  absence  of  all  peace  in 
the  strange  course  of  events  that  leave  so  many  bruised  on  the  Wheel  of  Fate,  and 
nothing  to  minimize  universal  distress,  come  in  somehow  with  Cable,  Telephone, 
Wireless,  Radio,  Air  Service,  Tanks,  Submarines  and  Chemical  Warfare?  Cer- 
tainly today  shadows  are  all  about  us  lurking  in  the  work  dead  hands  had  left 
behind.  Is  it  a  worthy  result  of  all  those  horrors  that  the  History  of  the  late 
War  has  blazed  upon  every  road,  in  every  hamlet  and  every  land?  Where  is  the 
worthy  result  of  our  advance  in  Invention  and  our  grappling  with  Science,  and 
what  does  it  say  for  so-called  Civilization  and  Christianity? 


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In  the  Civil  \\  ar  it  is  true  danger  and  treachery  were  on  every  side  and  never 
absent,  but  there  was  tranquility  of  temperament,  expressions  of  faith  and  a  kind 
of  courage  and  belief  in  each  other,  in  which  some  of  the  bravest  of  our  Leaders 
and  dearest  of  our  friends  today  are  notably  deficient. 

These  obvious  reflections,  easy  enough  of  suggestion  when  outside  the  danger- 
line,  impress  me  more  and  more  as  I  re-live  that  time,  and  remember  how  success- 
ful was  that  special  effort  to  release  that  special  prisoner.  It  was  largely,  I  learned, 
through  Mr.  William  E.  Dodge's  services,  who  saw  Mr.  Lincoln  on  the  subject, 
and  although  at  the  other  pole  of  sentiment,  was  a  firm  friend  of  Dr.  Sims,  a 
staunch  and  noble  upholder  of  the  Union, his  patriotism  was  no  less  fine  and  un- 
selfish, no  less  proud  and  unwavering,  because  he  believed  in  listening  to  the 
calls  of  many  who  did  not  believe  with  him.  His  means,  his  words  and  his  deeds 
all  united  to  express  the  truest  devotion  and  the  purest  patriotism  as  well  as  the 
most  generous  service.  He  was  a  bulwark  of  faith  in  the  Church  and  in  Missionary 
Fields,  showing  zeal  unmeasured  for  the  spread  of  the  Kingdom  of  Righteousness 
and  Peace.  He  stood  a  pillar  of  strength  in  the  world  of  business,  and  on  an  emi- 
nence socially,  and  was  considered  an  example  of  Civil  probity  and  of  personal 
nobility. 

Yet  that  true  lover  of  his  country,  one  of  the  great  lights  of  the  time,  traveled 
to  Washington  to  speak  for  and  serve  the  family  of  his  friend.  The  wide  difference 
in  views  and  sympathies  and  the  impact  of  self-assertion  neither  destroyed  nor 
weakened  mutual  kindness  and  helpfulness.  Is  it  not  a  marked  instance,  and  one 
for  his  descendants  to  hold  as  example,  in  prideful  memory? 

It  is  pitiful  that  today  what  is  human  and  beautiful  should  seem  a  hopeless 
romantic  dream,  incapable  of  realization  in  national  and  inter-national  interchanges. 
Even  in  individual  ones,  alas!  it  seems  so  sadly  seldom  transformed  into  a  fact. 

And  I  have  dwelt  on  the  whole  incident  not  as  peculiar  for  I  construe  it  as 
a  sign  of  the  times.  I  have  given  it  much  thought  and  have  drawn  certain  de- 
ductions, fantastic  though  they  may  seem  to  youth  and  inexperience  and  to  the 
prevailing  views  of  today.  My  interest  then  in  all  that  happened  was  keen  and 
not  detached,  yet  I  did  not  realize  the  amount  of  speculation  I  have  spent  on  it 
in  the  many  years  since.  It  is  now  that  my  scattered  faculties  assemble  them- 
selves and  stand  at  attention.  There  are  always  some  grounds  on  which  we  can 
meet  everyone,  and  every  state  of  existence  has  its  inner  justification  as  happiness 
and  unhappiness  depend  on  the  inner  state. 

I  had  matched  my  puny  strength  against  malice,  and  the  destruction  of  what 
was  precious  and  true  in  our  lovely  relation, without  betraying  any  sense  of  loyalty. 
The  flame  in  me  might  flicker  this  way  and  that,  in  the  wild  winds  that  like  an 
army's  slow  advance  blew  and  destroyed  all  before  it.  I  understood  the  menace 
to  peace  and  safety;  and  against  open  wrong  I  cried  aloud  before  the  Shrine  set 
up  by  patriotism;  but  I  was  not  ungrateful,  not  selfish,  no  longer  blind.  Some- 
thing of  the  buoyancy,  the  unafraid  challenge  of  life  went  out  of  me. 

And  now  my  first  unmistakable  perception  that  Tom  would  surely  be  set  at 
liberty,  that  conviction  based  on  the  kindly  relation,  efforts,  understanding  and 
sympathy  existing  between  their  friends  who  had  influence  and  were  exercising 
it,  became  verified  by  his  release  or  parole  or  exchange — I  never  knew  which. 

Dr.  Sims  had  worked  out  his  problem  by  deciding  to  leave  America  and  settle 
indefinitely  in  Europe.  Apparently,  perhaps  largely  in  consequence,  all  discussions 
or  irritations  were  sedulously  avoided.  I  realized  these  and  other  impressions 
as  the  result  of  my  sharp  and  startling  experience,  and,  recognizing  the  rights  of 
each  other,  very  deliberately  I  decided  to  absent  myself  entirely  and  retire  from 
the  field  when  Tom  arrived.  Well  I  could  imagine  exultation,  festivities,  cele- 
brations, explanations  and  experiences  that  I  neither  desired  to  hear  not  could 
possibly  share.  There  was  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  to  metaphorically  pack  my 
emotions  under  my  arm,  put  on  my  bonnet  and  walk  out  of  the  house.  K  very  t  hing 
pointed  to  that  one  course,  and  a  sense  of  disquietude  and  disturbance  rolled  off 
as  I  quietly  slipped  away  a  few  hours  before  the  expected  arrival.  1  knew  not 
only  that  in  the  excitement  I  would  not  be  missed, but   [keenly  felt   that  under  the 

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circumstances  my  disappearances  would  spell  greater  freedom,  freer  interchange, 
and  more  complete  satisfaction  to  all  concerned.  Since  the  good  news  of  his 
speedy  appearance  Eliza  had  needed  no  assistance,  and  I  had  become  more  of  a 
witness  than  of  a  participant.  The  part  I  played  in  their  life  had  become  a  minor 
one. 

Oh!  the  monotony  of  the  school  which,  though  not  under  its  rules  and  rigidities, 
I  felt  more  keenly  than  ever.  It  was  hard  to  relegate  so  much  into  the  background, 
impossible  to  escape  sharp  comparisons  and  dreary  incongruities.  I  struggled  on 
to  make  independence  practicable,  although  I  never  once  grasped  the  state  of 
mind,  or  any  outlook,  which  had  made  stars  and  winds  so  eloquent  before.  Things 
seemed  unreal,  I  could  not  ignore  much  that  was  becoming  unpleasant,  and  Oh! 
the  joyous  emotion  that  swept  over  me  when  Carrie  two  weeks  later  burst  in  like  a 
revivifying  and  refreshing  blaze  of  sunshine. 

"What  the  Dickens  ails  you,  Nina,  to  stay  away  so  long?  Even  Mamma  won- 
dered what  on  earth  had  become  of  you,  and  Papa  has  asked  where  you  were 
several  times.  My  Goodness!  What  rows  go  on  in  our  house!  Mamma  only 
laughs,  says  she  never  could  imagine  what  sister  Eliza  ever  saw  in  Tom  Pratt 
anyway.  Tom's  imprisonment  hasn't  helped  his  disposition.  He's  got  an  awful 
temper.  I  told  Sister  I'd  never  let  myself  be  made  miserable  by  any  such  hot- 
headed fool,  and  I  swear  I  won't  marry  a  man  I  can't  hush  up.  Jealous?  Why 
over  everything,  over  nothing,  mad  at  everyone,  and  I  tell  you  it  means  ructions. 
Of  course  we  keep  everything  from  Papa  or  Heaven  knows  what  would  happen." 

Carrie  had  youth,  beauty,  distinction,  charm,  style — and  temper;  and  I  laughed 
with  renewed  delight  as  she  rattled  on.  "Sister  Eliza  sent  me,  said  I  wasn't  to 
come  back  without  you,  and  I  said  your  airs  and  independence  made  me  mad; 
that  I  thought  your  high-mightiness  better  be  left  out  in  the  cold  as  long  as  you 
wanted  to  stay  there;  but  Sister  says  she  needs  you,  so  get  your  duds  quick  and 
come  along — the  Coupe's  waiting."  I  was  in  high  spirits  not  to  be  let  alone,  and 
hurried  preparations  while  she  gaily  continued — "I  tell  you  Paris  will  be  a  relief. 
I  begin  to  hate  New  York — so  many  prigs  and  prudes  setting  themselves  up  to 
judge  us — it's  duller  than  ditch-water.  The  Lord  knows  it  was  stiff  enough  before 
the  War,  and  now  those  straight-laced  old  things  are  sitting  up  in  their  big  shut- 
up  houses,  thinking  they  lead  society!  Why  Papa  has  had  letters  that  they'd 
give  their  heads  for.  That  old  Grande  Dame,  the  Duchesse  de  Grancy,  whose 
Mother  was  one  of  the  Ladies-in-Waiting  to  Marie  Antoinette,  and  whose  daughter 
is  a  Dame  D'Honneur  of  the  Empress  Eugenie,  wrote  Papa  that  she  had  secured 
us  a  fine  apartment  in  the  new  part  of  Paris  on  the  Champs-Elysee.  You  know 
it  was  the  Contesse  de  Florin  whose  recovery  the  whole  Court  thought  such  a 
miracle.  That  was  a  big  operation  of  Papa's,  but  of  course  he  was  successful, 
of  course  he  cured  her.  Now  they  are  all  so  delighted  we  are  going  to  live  in  Paris, 
as  well  as  the  big  Doctors  he  captured  last  year  when  he  operated  at  their  Hos- 
pitals. Dr.  Velpeau  and  Dr.  Neleton,  the  most  famous  Surgeons  in  France 
have  also  written,  and  Papa  heard  at  once  from  both  Mr.  Mason  and  Mr.  Slidell. 
Oh  we  are  in  for  a  great  time!  Mark  my  words,  we'll  be  in  the  Imperial  Circle 
next.  The  Grand  Duchess  of  Baden  was  a  patient  of  Papa's  last  time,  and  he'll 
have  the  Empress  before  long,  you  see  if  he  won't." 

That  prophecy  was  fulfilled.  Dr.  Sims  was  summoned  by  Sovereigns  and 
decorated  by  great  Courts.  He  spent  much  time  in  London  as  well  as  Paris  and 
secured  for  his  family  a  social  eminence  they  adorned.  But  Royalties, no  matter 
what  was  offered,  could  not  spoil  such  a  nature,  nor  change  the  simplicity,  sin- 
cerity and  directness,  warmth,  naturalness  and  charm,  that  endeared  their  dis- 
tinguished Father.  Always  kind  and  generous,  always  radiating  sympathy  and 
skill,  Dr.  Sims  was  at  home  with  high  and  low. 

When  we  entered  the  Madison  Avenue  house  of  many  memories  that  day 
of  my  return,  Eliza  flushed  and  paled  as  she  rose  to  welcome  me.  It  was  plain 
something  had  insinuated  itself  into  the  rose  of  her  happiness.  Something  had 
plunged  disturbingly  into  that  urbane  household.  Something  of  the  buoyancy, 
the  unafraid  challenge  of  life,  had  gone  out  of  it.    But  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  saw 


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shining  in  the  delicate  oval  of  Eliza's  face,  the  intense  blue  of  her  eyes,  under  the 
arch  of  her  brows  and  the  frame  of  that  glossy  black  hair,  even  about  the  curves 
of  her  mouth  as  she  smiled,  a  new  revelation  of  loveliness.  There  was  a  new  ex- 
pression of  feminine  sweetness  that  with  the  living  gentleness  of  her  manner  gave 
a  distinct  impression  of  irresistible  fascination.  She  talked  of  Tom  and  it  set  a 
fierce  hammering  in  my  heart.  She  was  no  longer  passionless,  she  opened  fully 
and  told  me  of  scenes  that  made  a  thrill  race  through  me.  Tom  had  a  perfect 
mastery  of  the  game  and  I  immediately  wanted  to  pit  my  brain  against  him,  and 
be  a  sharp  tool  to  cut  through  conditions;  but  everything  seemed  disastrous  and 
everything  meant  annulment  if  I  once  broke  bounds.  Eliza,  always  wistful  and 
adoring,  made  me  sub-consciously  aware  that  no  outside  power  could  break  the 
spell,  that  as  his  demands  grew  she  inevitably  and  increasingly  bestowed  all  her 
thoughts  and  time  to  gratify  his  whims. 

She  insisted  to  me  that  her  hero  was  ardent  and  always  chivalrous  at  bottom, 
and  that  it  had  been  a  Heaven  of  relief  when  he  first  clasped  her  in  his  arms.  Now 
he  was  shaken  and  stirred  to  irritablity  because  of  so  many  people  and  claims, 
for  friends  were  ever  about,  and  even  ordinary  callers  disturbed  his  composure. 
Something  I  had  never  seen  literally  bloomed  before  me  in  beauty  and  sweetness, 
and  the  experiences  she  confided  prepared  me  for  further  and  deeper  mysteries 
of  imagining,  creating,  idealizing  and  gilding.  It  was  the  woman's  appeal  in  the 
untried  nature  of  the  girl,  something  blooming  and  rounding  out  continually 
that  can  never  be  rooted  out  from  borders  where  it  once  was  seeded. 

But  Oh!  the  break  of  all  my  apotheosizing,  the  utter  destruction  that  very 
night  of  the  picture  that  had  tempted  me  to  endow  her  lover  with  enchantment. 
He  was  very  handsome,  that  one  must  admit,  but  I  could  not  endure  his  audacious 
looks  and  air  of  ruling  in  that  gay  circle.  We  met  at  dinner  and  before  it  ended  we 
became  almost  openly  antipathetic.  Even  his  reputation  for  courtesy  was  in  danger 
of  being  lost.  Our  mutual  dislike  grew  without  words,  and  I  was  sure  he  would 
have  gladly  used  some  deadly  ammunition  on  me  if  he  had  dared.  On  that  point 
of  aversion  my  imagination  never  had  to  work  overtime.  I  saw  that  nothing 
could  restore  me  to  my  old  place  while  he  occupied  his  throne  and  things  remained 
as  they  were.  He  had  walked  right  past  all  bolts  and  bars  and  guards  and  got  all 
he  wanted — and  he  did  not  want  me. 

I  effaced  myself  as  noislessly  and  as  speedily  as  possible;  but  it  made  those 
last  days  painfully  unsettling  and  I  had  no  philosophic  outlook. 

Something  disastrous  had  occurred  one  early  morning,  and  Tom  had  dashed 
furiously  out  of  the  house  leaving  Eliza  white  as  a  sheet.  It  was  hours  afterward 
that  I  found  her  alone  in  the  silence  of  her  own  room — silence  for  both  of  us  was 
ominous.  She  repeated  no  oft-told  tale  of  suspicion  and  jealousy,  only  whispered, 
"Stay  with  me.     Keep  the  others  away." 

And  the  twilight  darkened  and  we  returned,  after  the  forced  descent  to  dinner, 
and  by  that  upper  window  sat  watching  as  evening  hours  sped  on.  It  was  long 
after  midnight  and  I  saw  the  ravages  of  fear  deepening  almost  into  terror  until 
her  pallor  made  me  desperate.  I  shall  never  forget  how  we  leaned  out  of  that 
upper  window  peering  down  into  the  blackness.  It  was  two  o'clock  when  the 
familiar  footsteps  rang  upon  the  pavement  and  his  jaunt}'  upright  figure  was 
clearly  outlined  as  he  ascended  the  steps.  Eliza  slipped  swiftly  down  the  flight 
of  stairs  to  open  for  the  selfish-souled  lover  who  plainly  had  wished  to  give  her  a 
lesson.  It.  was  long  before  they  ascended  and  I  sat  alone,  my  indignation  rising 
to  fever-heat.  I  was  shut  out  of  it — shut  out  by  my  own  inhibitions,  and  neither 
novelty  nor  joy  during  all  my  last  visit  could  help  me  to  patient  enduranct 
him. 

The  Good-nights"  had  been  prolonged  sufficiently  for  me  to  understand  that 
"The  King  can  do  no  wrong",  thai  forgiveness  had  been  extended  to  the  innocent 
and  trustful  one,  and  all  was  swallowed  up  in  the  love-making  which  1  resented. 
The  lire  in  me  cooled  into  stead}-  dislike,  determined  avoidance,  and  a  grow- 
ing apprehension  for  my  darling.  There  were  days  and  weeks  of  growing 
distance  and  of  upheaval  and  removal  in  the  house.     All  were  tOO  bus}    and  tOO 


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absorbed  to  notice  enforced  absence  on  my  part.  And  the  fateful  day  of  departure, 
like  all  days  dreaded  or  desired,  dawned  at  last,  and  Oh!  then  the  farewells  hurt 
on  both  sides.  I  was  overwhelmed  when  they  left,  and  stood  with  streaming  eyes 
on  the  wharf  as  long  as  I  could  follow  the  receding  steamer.  In  heart  I  rebelled 
beyond  reason.  I  felt  obstinacy,  solicitude,  fear  and  pain  I  could  neither  measure 
not  understand,  as  I  saw  those  dear  faces  fade  into  the  distance. 

And  when  next  I  saw  them,  to  renew  those  happy  relations,  it  was  in  Paris 
where  we  spent  many  joyous  months.  And  I  can  never  forget  that  through  Dr. 
Sims'  letter  to  our  great  Actress,  Charlotte  Cushman,  I  owe  an  acquaintance 
and  friendship  that  opened  the  doors  of  many  notable  Artists  during  our  first 
trip  abroad.  It  was  at  Miss  Cushman's  house  in  Rome,  the  Winter  after  the 
War,  that  I  met  many  of  her  distinguished  group,  and  the  pleasure  and  distinction 
of  her  kindness  enriched  experience  and  made  our  stay  in  Rome  that  year  mem- 
orable. 

It  was  a  new  sort  of  existence  in  New  York  for  the  rest  of  that  year.  I  was 
not  interferred  with,  and  my  music  became  my  solace  and  Mr.  Huss  my  dependence. 
He  tried  to  advance  and  never  curtail  the  pleasures  of  my  existence,  securing 
tickets  for  all  notable  concerts,  and  at  the  regular  Philharmonics  he  began  to  try 
to  make  me  sufficiently  scholarly  to  show  some  interest  in  looking  over  and  seeing 
him  follow  the  Score  of  the  Symphonies.  He  took  me  to  many  Solo-Recitals  of 
Artists  more  or  less  renowned,  and  he  made  that  new  and  busy  life — at  least 
before  untried — wholly  fresh  in  comparison  with  my  half-hearted  attention  and 
studies  when,  before,  all  matters  had  invariably  assumed  the  personal  note.  He 
never  insinuated  criticism,  and  did  not  openly  bring  any  accusations  against  me 
in  our  discussions;  but  I  could  not  rebut  my  own  convictions  that  I  had  closed 
avenues  of  progress  while  so  absorbed  in  my  friends  whose  departure  I  was  mourn- 
ing. 

I  dwell  now  on  Mr.  Huss'  teaching  and  my  friendship  with  them  all  because 
of  its  comforting  assurance.  It  opened  to  view  afresh  simple  harmonious  home 
life,  sincere  and  satisfactory,  that  needed  no  outside  benefaction  or  excitements. 
I  saw  so  little  there  that  was  not  also  artistic,  and  I  listened  to  so  little  there  that 
in  the  end  was  not  elevating.  And  here,  my  children,  it  may  interest  you  to  watch 
me  decide  that  I  wanted  a  thing,  and  to  follow  the  steps  by  which  I  got  it;  for  I 
can  visualize  for  you  those  far  off  busy  days  with  distinctness.  Even  at  that 
length  of  time  the  faces  and  actions  of  those  I  have  written  of  are  never  blurred 
or  indistinguishable,  but  clear  before  my  mental  vision,  and  in  my  youth,  you  see, 
I  was  compact  of  impulses  and  emotions. 

The  rest  of  that  year  as  I  have  said  was  valuable,  because  I  had  reached  a  point 
in  which  I  took  an  important  step.  The  fascination  of  my  music  lessons  now  placed 
that  interest  on  a  plane  alone,  and  I  began  persistently  and  eagerly  to  strive  to 
learn.  Mr.  Huss  gave  me  that  legitimate  attention  which  could  not  accomplish 
all  it  suggested  but  afforded  me  definite  intellectual  images.  In  short  he  invited 
my  intellect  to  get  up  and  ride  along  with  my  emotions.  He  did  not  believe  in 
any  trifling  work  and  he  stirred  inward  desires  to  excel.  I  learned  that  to  be  even 
in  small  degree  master  of  technique  demanded  special  gifts  of  intelligence,  delicacy 
of  sentiment,  and  quickness  of  perception  to  hold  the  mirror  up  to  feeling,  and  that 
to  interpret  at  all  is  no  easy  task.  Taken  as  a  whole  the  result  was  not  highly 
creditable  as  to  technical  or  any  excellent  musical  interpretation,  but  my  ears 
were  getting  practiced  to  keenness,  and  my  attention  becoming  concentrated. 
His  audible  suggestions  and  charming  comments  incited  me  to  put  more  and 
more  enthusiasm  into  my  efforts.  At  the  Opera  I  was  wholly  fascinated,  and  I 
listened  to  wonderful  and  impressive  dramatic  and  musical  interpretations  which 
thrilled  me  to  the  core.  My  heart  was  big  and  hungry  enough  to  enjoy  and  to 
profit  by  the  unusual  opportunities.  I  learned  especially  to  appreciate  the  soloists, 
vocal  and  instrumental,  and  the  artists  as  individuals  were  set  upon  their  right- 
ful throne.  And  with  varied  opportunities  and  under  that  kind  tuition  I  became 
a  fervent  and  pious  lover  of  the  Art. 

In  the  Huss  household  were  no  eccentricities  of  behaviour  neither  the  usual 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


dull  methods  of  ordinary  progression — each  one  apparently  owning  a  spirit  which 
soared  far  above  the  merely  commonplace,  and  of  all  the  group  of  children  little 
Heinrich,  a  sparkling  specimen  and  full  of  talent,  was  my  favourite.  I  could 
never  imagine  adverse  destiny  for  such  a  boy,  as  every  time  I  saw  him  it  was  as 
if  he  had  first  opened  his  eyes  on  a  strange  fascinating  world,  which  he  faced  with 
sturdy  but  inarticulate  defiance  whenever  the  hours  were  devoid  of  interest. 
The  entire  correctness  of  the  child's  behaviour  with  visitors,  as  well  as  his  personal 
charm,  quite  enchanted  me  and  always  aroused  interest  and  expression  of  admira- 
tion from  others. 

And  Oh!  for  me  the  rapture  of  seeing  narrow  horizons  widen!  and  the  ritual 
ordained  was  to  practise,  practise,  practise  until  power  came.  But  it  did  not 
come,  only  the  sense  of  beauty  quickened  in  me.  It  was  as  if  the  huge  world 
was  opening  before  one's  eyes  with  a  promise  of  magic,  of  enduring  and  incal- 
culable fascination.  My  heart  was  brim  full  of  innocent  longing  to  kneel,  to 
worship,  and  to  be  of  the  chosen  who  served  at  that  High  Altar. 


THE    WORD    OF    COMMAND. 

The  resilliency  of  Youth  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  remarkable  things  about 
it.  Mine  was  a  family  that  admired  and  practised  strength  of  purpose  and  ac- 
cepted its  good  fortune  with  equanimity.  And  for  me,  where  delights  or  desires 
were  concerned,  a  wave  of  electric  and  exhilirating  anticipation  seemed  to  be  in 
the  very  air. 

It  is  the  priceless  amenities  of  existence  that  not  only  add  zest  and  protect 
the  fortunate  from  many  a  jolt  that  others  endure  in  the  earliest  stages  of  life's 
journey,  but,  the  substantial  advantage  of  ease  and  comfort,  makes  the  world  a 
cheerful  place  to  live  in.  You  see  I  was  a  stout-hearted  early  Victorian,  I  knew 
my  own  mind  and  admitted  very  little  compromise.  The  I— who  am  I — both 
by  inclination  and  training  might  always  have  been  unconsciously  concerned  with 
law  and  tradition,  yet  was  always  dealing  directly  with  lives  and  emotions.  Life,  as 
I  knew  it,  always  moved  on  to  musical  measures.  It  was  so  well  directed  by  my 
Parents,  that  when  I  took  it  for  periods  into  my  own  hands,  it  never  seemed  on 
the  loose,  I  mean  to  swing  perilously.  There  were  some  small  adventurous  ex- 
cursions before  I  swung  back  to  the  main  traveled  road,  and  to  my  well-ordered 
home,  but  someway  I  never  felt  that  I  was  lurching  a  little,  or  that  my  daily 
experiences  and  perspectives  were  in  danger  of  becoming  blurred  and  indefinite. 

And  now  looking  at  life  so  much  in  retrospect,  I  am  wondering  that  we,  the 
children  of  our  parents,  should  have  been  so  blessed  by  being  seldom  misunder- 
stood, and  never  crushed  or  devastated  by  injustice,  or  any  determination  to 
frustrate  our  efforts  or  endeavors  by  their  own  individual  tastes  and  habits.  Many 
mixed  reflections,  curious  aspirations  and  foolish  hopes  passed  through  my  head 
and  heart  in  the  intimacy  of  my  own  rooms,  but  the  enigmas  of  existence  were 
fascinating  and  there  was  nothing  stilted  or  formal  in  the  days. 

And  Oh! — The  Lake — the  Lake,  how  I  rejoiced  again  at  the  splendour  of  light 
and  colour  when  familiar  background  was  once  more  mine.  Its  different  moods 
meant  different  lights  and  wondrous  tints,  all  shades  of  lustrous  colours,  azure, 
turquoise,  rose  and  green,  violet  and  purple;  darkest  Sea  tones  and  dead  grey 
surfaces  when  the  sky  lowered  heavy  with  clouds;  and  far  away  on  the  horizon's 
rim  a  dim  line  of  depth  and  width  that  reaches  far  down,  and  has  its  foundation 
deep  in  some  earthly  paradise.  Oh!  who  can  uproot  beauty  if  nature  smiles  and 
shelters  and  reveals  herself,  and  lets  romance  cling  and  seem  to  open  out  and 
show  all  the  Fairylands  of  Poetry  and  Song. 

Very  soon  after  my  happy  return   I  felt  the  unwonted  shadow,  and  found 
my  parents  were  worrying  over  their  son  Horace's  craze  to  "Join  up",  to  be  one 
of  the  defenders  of  the  Union.     He  was  a  mere  boy,  one  in  the  "Lower  Forms 
at  Andover  Academy,  that  excellent  Preparatory  School  for  Harvard  University. 

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The  War  had  called  away  many  of  the  older  students,  most  of  whom  had  to  lie 
as  to  their  age.  The  need  was  too  great  not  to  have  Recruiting  Officers  shut  eyes  to 
any  course  that  would  not  add  strength  to  the  Army,  however  young  looking  the 
applicants.  Horace  was  then  barely  sixteen.  It  was  the  stirring  and  dramatic 
events  of  the  time  that  apparently  drove  out  of  the  mind  of  the  youngest  classes 
every  other  pre-occupation. 

Our  Mother,  who  seemed  to  possess  the  Seer's  gift,  was  inclined  to  think  a 
crisis  had  arisen  sufficiently  important  for  them  to  summon  my  militant  young 
brother  home,  to  prevent  in  advance  any  dangerously  hasty  act  or  obstinate 
aversion  and  desertion  from  the  path  of  learning;  for  battles,  and  the  sound  of 
battles,  threatened  and  almost  remodelled  character;  making  everything  else 
decline  into  unimportance,  measured  against  the  ardour  of  patriotism  and  the 
devotion  of  service.  Consequently,  that  he  might  view  life  in  another  perspective, 
and  realize  that  his  sixteen  years  must  restrain  him  for  the  immediate  present, 
to  study  instead  of  to  fight,  he  was  called  to  meet  remonstrance,  firm  insistence, 
and  finally  gently,  but  positively,  the  "word  of  command". 

The  open  discussions  had  their  effect,  and  my  brother  was  brought  to  see  that 
he  must  not  dream  of  withstanding  his  family;  that  he  must  exercise  what  required 
the  most  courage,  by  yielding  his  own  wishes  to  theirs.  To  his  youth  and  inex- 
perience that  must  have  required  great  effort,  and  must  have  appealed  as  self 
sacrifice,  the  cheerful  giving  up  of  one's  own  passionate  longing  to  ally  oneself 
with  the  great  Cause  of  a  Country's  defense.  He  was  amply  rewarded  by  a  con- 
fidence of  my  Father's  who  told  him,  that  the  War,  in  the  opinion  of  those  most 
qualified  to  judge,  was  slowly  drawing  to  its  close.  And  then  he  shared  with  him 
a  secret  hope  that  had  long  been  our  Father's  dream.  He  especially  wished  Horace 
to  have  a  year  in  Europe  before  entering  College,  and  planned  for  us  all  a  pro- 
longed season  of  travel  abroad,  that  we  together,  as  a  united  family,  should  have 
the  great  privilege  of  visiting  foreign  lands. 

It  was  quite  enough  to  hearten  my  young  brother  who  kept  the  secret  until 
its  near  possibility  was  assured  to  us  all.  It  was  a  promise  of  splendid  things 
that  made  existence  for  its  own  sake  glorious,  planning  those  wonderful  years 
over-seas.  And  Horace  shook  off  his  despondent  mood  and,  aroused  and  alert, 
returned  to  school  to  give  his  studies  there  his  best  attention. 

I  can  trace  way  back,  to  almost  the  exact  hour  that  dramatic  presentation, 
and  tales  and  songs  and  gay  adventurous  recitals,  settled  suddenly  in  my  own 
mind  the  thought,  /  want  my  brothers  to  go  to  Harvard.  What  did  I  know  of  Col- 
leges in  general  or  particular?  Courses  of  study  or  the  relative  values  of  Insti- 
tutions of  Learning?  Absolutely  nothing.  But  that  Kilbreth  visit,  the  sight  and 
sound  of  those  Cincinnati  chums,  and  classmates  of  the  sons  of  the  house,  the 
jovial  choruses,  the  roaring  College  songs,  the  droll  details  of  adventures  in  Boston 
and  Cambridge,  the  looks  of  those  Upper  Class  men,  their  air,  dress  and  bearing; 
all  was  as  impressive  as  their  open  pride  in  the  traditions  and  rank  of  their  Alma 
Mater;  it  settled  in  my  receptive  mind  the  vast  and  unapproachable  superiority 
of  Harvard  University.  And  later  to  my  brothers,  I  had  repeated  with  all  the 
emphasis  at  my  command,  all  I  could  remember  that  was  most  vividly  interesting. 

In  recounting  what  had  most  impressed  me,  I  strove  to  impart  my  own  am- 
bitions as  well  as  enthusiasms.  I  only  remember  one  sentence  as  significant  or 
proof  of  any  marked  effect.  Horace  had  a  gift  at  reticence.  He  was  a  Gray  in 
temperament  and  never  overflowed  unconsciously.  He  prophesied  his  future 
eminence  as  a  Judge  on  the  Bench,  by  looking  calmly  at  evidence,  and  rarely 
expressing  conclusions  hastily. 

He  was  Mother's  own  boy  and  his  reserve,  even  at  that  age,  amounted  to 
dignity.  It  never  detracted  from  his  charm,  or  from  that  serene  radiance  of  per- 
sonality. He  had  marked  social  gifts  and  was  never  unduly  silent  in  company 
even  then;  for  his  striking  appearance,  his  ease  of  movement  and  his  graces  of 
manner  had  seemed  from  childhood  in  the  ascendant.  There  was  something 
ineffable  that  Horace  could  use  at  will  to  attract  admiration  and  increase  affection. 

After  one  of  myexcited  statements  of  the  overpowering  advantages  of  Harvard, 


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he  looked  at  me  gravely,  and  said  quietly — "Yes,  I  think  I'd  like  to  go  there;" 
that  was  all,  but  it  was  sufficient  to  change  my  purpose  into  speech  and  argument. 
I  knew  then  and  I  know  now,  that  it  was  my  influence  alone,  my  representations 
and  my  urgency,  that  finally  decided  the  question  and  sent  my  brother  to  that 
University,  for  which  he  was  then  taking  the  mentioned  course  in  Andover. 

It  was  the  first  and  only  time  I  remember  coming  in  contact  with  my  Father's 
choice  or  questioning  his  decisions.  My  Father  naturally  preferred  that  his  sons 
should  attend  the  Evanston  Institution  with  which  he  was  in  a  sense  affiliated, 
as  always  an  important  Official  and  benefactor,  and  for  which  he  lavishly  gave 
of  time,  thought  and  means.  His  unstinted  efforts  were  only  matched  by  his 
high  hopes,  his  high  purposes,  his  educational  aspirations  and  his  devotion  to 
standards  of  Church  and  State.  His  ever  growing  influence  and  unselfish  services 
to  aid  in  the  development  of  Northwestern  University  and  Garret  Biblical  In- 
stitute, can  in  their  result,  never  be  measured  and  never  be  exaggerated.  He  was 
one  of  the  Founders,  one  of  the  most  devoted  adherents,  loyal  and  loving  to  the 
very  end.  As  an  important  leader,  as  Vice-President  or  President  for  fifty  years 
or  more  on  the  Executive  Board  of  one,  and  Secretary  and  Treasurer  of  the  other, 
he  never  laid  aside  those  duties  until  his  death. 

On  the  merits  of  College  East  and  West  and  their  claims,  he  failed  to  see  any 
reason  that  ought  to  contradict  his  wishes  or  over-ride  his  judgment.  He  was 
mild  but  firm  in  the  expression  of  his  opinion  and  preference,  and  for  all  my  eloquent 
statements  he  remained  at  first  quite  immovable. 

I  had  no  realizing  sense  or  feeling  for  the  probable  clarity  of  his  spiritual  or 
critical  faculty.  Everything  to  me  as  I  saw  and  expressed  it  was  in  terms  of  the 
material.  I  cannot  recall  that  Horace  was  more  than  a  silent  listener  to  the  argu- 
ments pro  and  con,  but  I  very  well  remember  that  I  refused  to  admit  the  claims 
of  any  new  Institutions  as  against  one  with  the  history  of  so  many  years  of  ac- 
complishment, and  with  that  age-distinction  and  eminence  that  rendered  it  so 
important  to  the  whole  country. 

It  was  during  one  day  of  a  renewed  discussion  that  George  interrupted  impul- 
sively— "Why  Father,  let  Horace  go  there  if  he  wants  to,  I'll  go  to  Northwestern — 
I'd  like  it  lots  better — it's  nearer  home  and  I  don't  care  anything  for  the  East, 
nor  whether  the  College  is  old  or  new,  I  know  I'd  like  to  go  to  Evanston  and  it 
would  be  near  you  all." 

That  unexpected  assurance  and  warmth  of  declaration  seemed  to  turn  the 
scale.  George's  apparent  desire  to  ally  himself  with  Father  and  his  preference, 
was  a  strong  factor  in  the  situation,  and  Mother's  words — "We'd  better  let  our 
boys  decide  for  themselves" — effected  the  compromise — and  so  it  was  brought 
to  pass  without  heat  or  hurt. 

George  as  a  boy  of  twelve  had  listened  with  animation  and  vivid  interest  to 
my  descriptions;  but  sensing  disappointment  or  any  distress  for  Father  he  had 
instinctively  tried  to  banish  it.  He  did  not  wait  to  weigh  any  course  for  him- 
self nor  was  it  consciously  an  unselfish  act.  It  was  simply  an  expression  of  his 
nature.  The  incident  shows  perfectly  the  characteristic  lovingness  of  my  brother 
George,  his  tender  sympathies,  his  unselfish  spirit,  and  his  swift  warm-hearted 
response  to  every  appeal. 

The  exquisite  deference  to  his  parents  that  developed  with  his  years,  the 
marked  grace  and  courtesy  of  manner  and  an  unfailing  consideration  for  others, 
made  him  beloved  in  all  circles  where  he  was  known.  His  popularity  later  in 
College  was  greatly  enhanced  by  his  physical  attributes  and  athletic  leadership. 
He  was  the  pride  of  the  Gymnasium  that  he  and  my  cousin,  Will  Evans,  started 
and  brought  to  completion.  He  was  the  Organizer  and  President  of  the  fine 
Yacht  Club  that  was  at  one  time  the  pride  of  the  town.  He  conducted  races 
and  contests  of  various  kinds.  He  and  Elysabeth's  brother,  Fred  Clarke,  thought 
Evanston  should  have  a  fine  social  centre,  and,  by  their  united  efforts  and  success 
in  interesting  a  few  others  of  prominence,  the  present  Evanston  Country  Club 
came  into  being. 

Me  always  excelled  in  sports,  eclipsing  easily  in  skating,  rowing,  dancing  or 


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any  form  of  manly  exercise  with  the  grace  and  skill  of  a  champion — everywhere 
showing  the  sheer  joy  of  exuberant  life.  George  was  very  striking  in  appearance, 
six  feet  in  height,  of  blonde  type  like  a  young  Viking,  erect  and  virile,  a  splendid 
figure,  he  showed  perfect  physical  fitness. 

With  no  frailty  or  infirmity  visible  his  health  throughout  boyhood  and  youth 
was  superb.  He  grew  from  youth  to  maturity  and  into  noble  manhood,  and 
being  naturally  and  gracefully  demonstrative,  his  smile,  genial  word  of  greeting, 
innate  courtesy,  ready  service  and  charming  personality  endeared  him  to  all  who 
came  near.  He  had  seemed  a  young  Hercules,  and  how  could  we  ever  fear  or 
believe  that  he  the  youngest,  the  strongest,  would  be  the  first  to  leave  us?  Yet 
like  a  knife  at  the  throat — in  early  middle  life — Death  summoned  him.  There 
were  circumstances  in  connection  with  his  illness  too  poignantly  distressing  to 
recall.     He  tried  to  rally — to  meet  life's  inexorable  demands — and  failed. 

It  was  a  swift  tragedy  and  the  anguish  of  it  for  us  all  was  not  tempered.  My 
Mother  loved  her  children  with  an  intense  devotion  as  people  love  the  things 
that  make  life  precious — that  feed  the  heart.  And  grief  rolled  over  her  in  great 
waves,  sweeping,  submerging  and  almost  drowning  in  the  black  misery  of  loss 
and  longing.  That  first  crushing  sorrow  meant  heartbreak,  and  stamped  a  mark 
that  nothing  could  ever  wholly  obliterate. 

At  that  time  when,  back  from  New  York,  I  was  settling  into  the  home-groves 
the  War  seemed  someway  so  much  nearer,  so  much  closer  at  hand  than  when 
away.  In  the  East  I  had  almost  lost  its  daily  impact  upon  consciousness,  that 
impact  of  violent  self-assertion  which  was  in  every  thought  and  word  about  me. 
Those  dreadful  casualty  lists — Death  going  on  and  as  it  were,  gripping  us  all. 
The  War  was  like  an  encroaching  nightmare — extinction  recurring  with  ghastly 
battles  and  terrible  acts,  and  forever  in  the  Press  on  every  page  in  every  column, 
reports  of  unspeakable  horrors. 

And  sheltered  from  its  direct  encounters  yet  I  too  began  to  awake  in  the  night 
seeing  vague  shapes,  and  in  the  days  even  visual  beauty  began  to  seem  only  a 
scroll  filled  with  close  writ  drama.  Sorrow  and  mourning  everywhere — in  mansion, 
in  farm-house,  beside  the  snows  in  Winter  or  when  Summer  held  the  land. — The 
country-side  or  home  interiors  all  marked  by  the  graves  of  those  who  fought 
in  the  Civil  War — all  left  with  only  an  agonizing  freight  of  memories.  Why  were 
things  as  they  were?  It  was  arousing  imagination  to  aid  destructive  sort  of  work 
—to  be  killed — to  have  those  we  love  killed — it  meant  nothing  but  murder. 

'  And  then  came  Elysabeth  cool  and  sane.  The  sun  was  in  its  right  place.  The 
possibilities  of  life  were  by  no  means  exhausted.  "There  were  victories  to  seek", 
she  said.  Curious  for  one  so  young  to  be  so  cynically  clear  in  vision.  "Don't 
be  so  dramatically  morbid.  Your  imagination  seems  in  danger  of  leading  you 
into  Chambers  of  Horrors.  I  hate  that  sort  of  grissly  instinct,  forever  dwelling 
on  what  is  terrible.  There's  a  twist  in  you  somewhere,  and  treacherous  depths  of 
emotion — pitfalls  in  fact — and  I  believe  you  are  pushing  yourself  toward  them. 
In  this  Universe  even  though  every  cause  has  its  effect,  only  patience  and  endur- 
ance can  calm  the  storms  or  help  us  to  rise  and  stand  quiet  in  times  of  turmoil." 
Such  philosophy  like  devotion  threw  out  its  line  far  beyond  itself,  and  with  each 
breath,  when  we  began  to  read  once  more, came  fresh  and  novel  sensation,  almost 
of  exhiliration. 

To  live  life  eagerly  and  buoyantly,  and  forget  what  I  could  neither  face  nor 
help  now  became  my  effort,  and  that  was  advanced  by  every  mental  process. 
The  matter  of  life  being  worth  while — and  mine  certainly  was — was  being  shown 
to  me  as  only  a  matter  of  short-sightedness  or  far-sightedness.  The  heart  that 
knows  the  power  to  rise  above  emotion,  Elysabeth  maintained,  was  after  all  the 
one  that  felt  most  justly  and  most  deeply;  that  leaned  most  securely  and  strove 
to  do  the  best  to  broaden  intellectual  vision;  for  each  aspiration  can  make  a  dif- 
ference in  the  ultimate  welfare  of  the  world. 

Elysabeth's  friendship  and  mine  has  never  been  broken.  After  her  years  as 
a  brilliant  and  successful  teacher  she  left  Chicago  to  make  her  home  in  Boston, 
near  the  beloved  and  only  brother.    A  certain  sentence  that  I  find  in  a  preserved 


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Birthday  letter  of  1890,  gives  me  a  thrill  of  joy  today,  even  as  it  did  when  I  read 
it  first.  "Your  friends,  my  dear,  could  wish  you  no  greater  happiness  than  to  see 
yourself  as  others  see  you.  It  would  be  with  quite  another  result  than  Robbie 
Burns  thought  of!" 

To  show  that  the  brilliant  mentality  of  her  age  is  as  satirically  sparkling  today 
as  in  the  young  philosopher  of  sixty-two  years  ago,  I  quote  a  few  characteristic 
sentences  in  the  last  two  letters  dated  and  received  this  Spring  of  1925. 

"I  think  one  of  the  to  be  prized  possibilities  of  old  age  is  that  you  feel  free  to 
divest  yourself  of  certain  opinions  and  efforts,  not  feeling  any  obligation  of  action 
that  requires  a  special  philosophy — So  the  world  is  all  before  you  where  to  choose, 
and  it  becomes  delightful  drama,  not  tragedy  because  the  scenes  shift  rapidly 
and  the  fifth  act  doesn't  come  to  the  whole  Cycle." 

"To  keep  in  the  current  of  domestic  and  foreign  affairs  requires  time,  and 
they  are  to  me  interesting,  this  World-Drama  in  which  events  are  so  much  more 
interesting  than  the  actors,  that  the  latter  seem  puppets  of  the  mysterious  "Zeit 
Geist" — why  did  I  not  say  Providence? — perhaps  because  Providence  suggests 
a  nursery-care  for  individual  welfare,  and  there  seems  today  a  terrible  (to  us  nursery 
folk)  impersonality  in  events." 

"After  you  have  perfected  your  character  in  youth  and  middle  age  by  duty 
and  self-denial  why  "paint  the  lily  and  adorn  the  rose"  by  limiting  the  freedom 
of  wish  or  whim  in  advancing  years?  Halos  are  difficult  of  adjustment.  Modern 
psychology  negatives  the  value  of  noble  example  to  youth  whose  slogan  is  self 
development  and  self  expression.  A  frank  sound-hearted  selfish  old  age  is  really 
wisdom." 

"Except  for  my  friends  and  whatever  fruitage  I  gather  in  the  present,  the 
past,  my  past  doesn't  interest  me.  History,  the  biography  of  others,  does,  so  far 
as  it  illumines  the  ever-developing  Day,  here  and  now.  One  would  like  the  men- 
tality of  the  young-eyed  Cherubim  who  see  the  only  hour  that  exists — namely, 
JTUD  IjCLlYuL  jhe  Creative  instincj^that  holds  past  and  future.  I  wish  dear  Nina,  you  were  a 
neighbour,  you  might  then  guide  and  form  my  mind.  Meanwhile  as  I  am  lacking 
such  help  from  you  I  am  just 

Your  loving  friend 

Elysabeth." 

And  soon  I  became  eager  for  Dr.  Bevan's  greeting  and  guidance.  No  one  had 
ever  so  opened  out  new  worlds  or  so  generously  helped  us.  And  the  day  he  called 
again  light  flooded  the  earth.  The  Lake  was  luminous,  irridescent,  opalescent 
and  rapturous  with  intangible  light.  Such  hours,  beauty  without  and  joy  within, 
are  momentary  revelations  and  release  from  visible  vapours  and  dark  fogs. 

When  Dr.  Bevan  asked  "what  I  had  been  reading  while  away  so  many  months", 
I  looked  up  to  meet  his  kind,  penetrating  gaze,  and  replied — "Well!  Romances 
mainly,  and  'Lives  of  the  Musicians'.  There  were  two  lovely  stories  I  ran  across, 
'Charles  Auchester'  and  'Rumour',  also  two  gorgeous  novels,  'Beulah'  and  'St. 
Elmo',  where  they  all  talked  in  words  a  yard  long!  They  were  by  Augusta  J. 
Evans  and  I  vow  she  had  plenty  of  sentimentality.  But  that  wonderful  English 
writer,  George  Eliot,  whose  real  name  is  Evans  too,  is  as  far  above  our  American 
authoress  as  the  very  stars  themselves.  They  don't  live  on  the  same  planet. 
Oh!  how  I  devoured  those  books,  'Scenes  from  Clerical  Life' — 'Silas  Marner'- 
'The  Mill  on  the  Floss'  and  'Adam  Bede'.  They  were  wonders.  But  since  1  gol 
home" — I  ended  with  a  laugh — "I've  read  James  Freeman  Clarke's  'Ten  Groat 
Religions'  and  I  like  it.  I've  learned  a  lot  about  the  Sages  and  Seers  of  the  Great 
East,  and  now  Elysabeth  and  I  have  begun  to  read  'Dante'  together.  Not  in  the 
original,  of  course,  we're  not  clever  enough  for  that;  but  we  have  three  trans- 
lations; we  compare  carcfully,and  you  know  how  splendidly  thorough  Elysabeth 
is." 

"That's  fine,"  he  answered;  "but  I'd  like  to  have  you  learn  a  little  about 
Oriental    Philosophy,    Hindu    Literature    and    the    wonderful    Indian    Scriptures. 

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I've  something  for  you  to  dip  into  that  will  show  where  all  religions  came  from, 
and  teach  you  something  worth  while  about  the  Saints  and  Sages  of  the  Far  East. 

I  had  never  been  initiated  into  the  first  principles  of  the,  then  little  known, 
Yogi  Philosophy  which  was  profoundly  interesting  my  mentor;  in  other  words, 
revered  Guide,  Philosopher  and  Friend!  Once  more  strongly  under  his  influence, 
I  endeavoured  in  my  own  way  to  follow  his  footsteps  which  changed  for  the  time 
the  entire  trend  of  thought  and  belief.  It  was  a  splendid  philosophy  that  the 
real  man  was  not  the  visible  body;  that  it  was  only  a  suit  of  clothes  that  the  spirit 
had  put  on  and  could  take  off  from  time  to  time;  that  as  instruments  we  must 
be  finely  tuned — the  body  brought  under  the  control  of  the  mind  so  as  to  respond 
as  they  put  it,  to  the  touch  of  the  hand  of  the  Master. 

He  sent  me  books  of  those  Eastern  Scriptures  and  I  found  them  colourful 
and  fascinating,  and  reading  under  that  direction,  I  said  often  to  myself  that  I 
needed  and  wanted  less  heart  and  more  brains,  else  how  could  I  ever  get  enough 
knowledge  of  Literature,  History,  Art  and  Science  to  understand  or  appreciate 
in  full  measure  Indian  Philosophy  and  its  occult  teachings?  Curiously  enough 
it  appealed  to  my  dramatic  sense,  and  gave  me  something  of  the  same  feeling  I 
had  as  a  little  child  when  my  Father  read  to  me  "The  Fate  of  Liars"  out  of  the 
Book  of  Books,  instead  of  switching  me  as  I  deserved  for  that  first  falsehood. 

How  it  all  comes  back  to  me — "All  liars  shall  have  their  part  in  the  Lake  which 
burneth  with  Fire  and  Brimstone  which  is  the  second  death."  How  that  called 
to  my  imagination  which  has  always  rioted  in  pictures,  even  as  it  did  while  I 
steeped  myself  in  those  wonderful  and  revelatory  writings.  That  I  ever  came 
safely  through  a  maze  of  doubt,  mystery,  and  peril  is  bewildering  to  me  even 
now.  Perhaps  because  whatever  I  attempted  so  soon  seemed  broken  up,  scattered 
and  kaleidoscopic,  for  little  daily  events  or  sudden  change  of  surroundings  broke 
into  bits  any  arduous  studies. 

Just  at  that  period  my  cousin,  Joe  Evans'  letters  were  full  of  the  develop- 
ment of  a  romance.  She  had  met  the  man  of  men  and  the  swift  recognition  of 
his  supremacy  had  glorified  the  days.  He  had  deigned  to  woo  the  Governor's 
daughter,  and  she  felt  he  had  stooped  from  a  height  of  unapproachable  manhood 
to  crown  her  wondering  self  with  the  royal  signet  of  choice.  I  laughed  at  undue 
humility.  Joe  never  overestimated  her  own  loveliness  and  now,  I  thought,  she 
acts  as  if  prostrate  before  a  King!  Heavens!  What  must  it  be  to  adore  anyone 
like  that  and  have  him  choose  you  out  of  the  whole  world,  and  I  longed  to  look 
upon  that  paragon  of  his  sex. 

My  cousin,  Josephine,  after  graduating  from  the  Massachusetts  Wilbraham 
Academy,  first  crossed  those  great  plains  in  a  Prairie  Schooner,  as  they  called 
those  big  covered  wagons  fitted  up  for  the  long  days  and  nights  of  travel.  Her 
Father,  -appointed  by  Mr.  Lincoln,  Governor  of  that  far  Territory  of  Colorado, 
had  moved  his  family  from  the  pretty  Evanston  home  to  that  little  town  of  Denver, 
on  the  very  frontiers  of  civilization.  They  seemed  to  have  migrated  to  the  moon, 
and  had  all  sorts  of  unusual  experiences  and  relative  hardships.  Now  the  railroad 
to  Cheyenne  had  been  built  among  other  great  enterprises  of  Uncle  John  Evans 
who  wrought  such  wonders  in  developing  the  City.  His  material  achievements 
were  very  great  and  his  personality  like  his  work  survives  the  years.  His  were  no 
chimerical  schemes.  He  participated  in  and  created  tremendous  events  in  that 
territory.  He  had  brains,  resourcefulness,  and  gifts  of  foresight  as  well  as  general- 
ship; Denver,  after  he  became  its  civil  head,  could  never  be  isolated.  He  built 
railroads,  Churches,  Schools,  and  made,  by  sheer  force  of  initiative  and  stupendous 
purpose,  a  shanty  town  of  twelve  or  fifteen  hundred  inhabitants  into  a  City  that 
connected  East  and  West.  He  changed  and  developed  and  made  it  dominate 
that  whole  Rocky  Mountain  region.  No  wonder  they  called  him,  in  after  years, 
as  they  did  Gladstone,  "The  Grand  old  Man".  He  was  a  conquering  hero  in  every 
sense.  Such  dauntless  spirits  are  indeed  our  proudest  heritage  from  the  Past. 
His  was  a  mind  that  projected  great  things  and  saw  visions,  and  once  he  prophesied 


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that  the  third  great  City  of  our  Great  Country  would  be  on  the  site  of  Denver. 
New  York,  Chicago  and  Denver! 

And  now  his  descendants,  his  son,  his  daughter,  his  grandson  and  namesake 
add  lustre  to  the  name.  They  have  given  value  and  noble  service  to  the  City  of 
his  creative  dreams.  They  honour  it  in  Civic  virtues,  unstinted  usefulness,  noble 
and  honourable  living.  Their  usefulness  to  Denver  and  what  they  have  accom- 
plished cannot  be  measured. 

It  was  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures  I  had  experienced  for  long,  to  hear  that 
Joe  was  coming  to  stay  awhile  with  me  before  her  contemplated  marriage,  in  the 
Evanston  home,  when  Summer  bloom  was  at  its  freshest.  She  wanted  me  for 
"maid  of  honour",  and  said  General  Custer  was  to  stand  with  me.  All  plans 
were  laid  and  Aunt  Margaret  would  arrive  before  long  to  settle  the  cottage  by 
the  shore,  and  get  all  in  readiness  for  rejoicing  festivities,  while  the  bride-elect's 
plans  embraced  some  visits  East;  but  the  bridegroom  was  booked  to  visit  his 
fair  fiance  at  our  house  before  the  consummation.    And  so  it  chanced. 

The  morning  of  his  appearance? — How  clear  cut  is  the  picture!  Was  it  three 
years  before  that  Father  had  brought  in  to  supper  a  dark-eyed  young  stranger 
en  route  for  Colorado  to  act,  I  think,  as  Secretary  or  in  some  way  assist  my  Uncle? 
He  looked  to  me  a  man  of  mature  years,  large,  square  built  and  dark  as  an  Oriental. 
His  personality  was  striking,  and  he  seemed  somehow  conspicuous,  and  gave  me 
a  curious  sensation  that  was  only  dimly  acceptable. 

That  night  my  Mother  was  absent  and  I  sat  in  her  place  behind  the  tea-urn. 
That  meeting  was  commonplace  enough — no  adventure,  only  the  caprice  of  the 
hour  made  him  like  a  herald,  so  that  one  awaited  a  moment,  all  unconsciously, 
that,  to  some  minds,  never  loses  its  quality  of  miracle — as  if  some  thrill  or  cry 
said — I  am  here.  Imperceptibly,  resistlessly  I  felt  his  look.  Sometimes  a  look 
one  cannot  interpret  or  understand,  yet  rouses  in  its  eloquence  and  intensity  a 
curious  thrill  of  expectancy  or  wonderment.  Such  a  one  I  felt  that  night.  We 
had  talked  merrily,  when,  looking  up  to  answer  the  simplest  question,  I  met  a 
gaze  so  deeply  penetrating,  so  strangely  speaking,  so  keen  and  flashing  in  those 
dark  eyes,  that  it  called  to  me,  and  made  an  unforgettable  impression  although 
it  was  only  a  passing  illusion — but  it  was  his  moment — and  it  would  never  come 
again.     I  was  vaguely  relieved  when  he  left  after  a  long  evening. 

The  stranger  continued  a  stranger  and  I  never  afterward  even  recalled  his 
name,  but  something  possibly  vital  had  slipped  out  of  life.  Years  after,  during 
our  ten  months' engagement,  he  told  me  what  a  flicker  of  life  and  sudden  emotion 
he  felt  at  our  table — that  he  had  shed  there  other  fancies,  even  plans,  he  had  counted 
upon  and  weighed  as  most  important,  suddenly  gave  him  a  sense  of  their  insig- 
nificence;  he  said  that  I  had  intrigued  his  imagination  for  those  hours;  that  a 
dream  rose  before  him  that  had  been  long  desired,  and  that  seemed  to  wait  and 
to  beckon.  Always  it  was  in  such  a  home,  it  was  such  a  daughter,  such  youth 
and  gaiety,  that  he  wanted  to  make  his  own  heart's  altar — But  the  hour  was  not 
ripe.  That  was  a  scene  long  blurred.  Faculties  have  to  be  wrought  up  into  ener- 
getic action  to  report  events  of  fanciful  thoughts  properly,  and  mine  were. 

How  quickly  I  answered  Joe's  exultant  cry  and  the  eager  voice  that  called 
one  morning — "Oh!  come,  Cousin  Nina,  come  quick.  He's  here!"  It  was  only 
an  hour  after  the  arrival — they  had  been  happily  closeted,  but  at  that  summons 
I  rushed  down  to  join  the  enchanted  pair  and  meet  the  much  lauded  lover.  One 
look! — You? — Why!  we've  met  before!" 

Joe  was  very  fragile,  delicate  in  build  and  with  a  certain  luminousncss  that 
surrounded  her  like  an  aura.  The  death-marked  have  sometimes  a  peculiar  look 
long  before  they  leave  us,  that  seems  to  ask,  to  plead,  to  grieve  as  if  indeed  they 
saw  the  cloud  that  was  so  soon  to  shroud  all  nature  from  their  eyes.  And  yet, 
God  be  thanked!  she  had  her  year.  And  then — and  then — "The  beginning  of 
things  reaching  forward  to  the  end  of  things,  and  the  end  of  things  reaching  back- 
ward to  the  beginning." 

It   was  just  at   th.it   time  while  our  house  was  full  of  visitors  that    1  received  .1 


P 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


polite  note  from  Mr.  Emery  of  Cincinnati,  who  had  given  me  those  charming 
drives  during  my  last  days  at  the  Kilbreth  mansion.  He  wrote  that  he  would  be 
in  Chicago  at  a  specified  date,  near  at  hand,  and  would  give  himself  the  pleasure 
of  calling.  This  aroused  no  thrill,  it  was  complimentary  to  be  remembered;  but 
I  felt  an  uneasy  wonder  as  to  how  I  could  best  entertain  him.  I  mean  in  any 
measure  compatible  with  his  former  courtesies  to  me.  He  had  dated  his  arrival 
by  a  very  formal  announcement  and  I  racked  my  brain,  not  realizing  that  the 
ordinary  hospitalities  of  a  house,  or  ordinary  personal  interchanges,  might  afford 
sufficient  satisfaction.  I  was  only  eager  to  entertain  him  and  try  to  repay  his 
courteous  attentions.  A  flood  of  recollection  that  I  had  arranged  to  attend  a  cer- 
tain gathering  of  the  young  people,  an  elaborate  sort  of  picnic  in  the  woods,  or 
on  the  shore  somewhere  distant,  as  we  were  to  go  by  train,  suggested  a  pleasant 
solution.  Why!  I  could  take  him,  I  could  show  him  Chicago's  best  and  brightest! 
I  was  relieved,  and  I  wrote  asking  him  to  come  to  the  house  early  as  I  had  a  special 
pleasure  in  store.  My  faculties  I  suppose  did  not  allow  me  to  grasp  things  suffi- 
ciently in  that  line  to  know  that  probably  what  he  sought  was  only  a  deeper  ac- 
quaintance or  opportunities  to  enjoy  or  inspect  my  home  life.  I  made  the  grave 
mistake  the  sophisticated  would  probably  call  a  stupid  blunder. 

Mr.  Emery  arrived  prompt  to  the  hour.  Immaculate  in  dress  he  looked  slim 
and  elegant.  His  figure  was  upright  and  his  manner  impeccable.  The  dark  hair 
was  brushed  back  carefully  and  smoothly  but  no  blaze  of  life  shone  from  the 
eyes,  and  no  rude  health  flushed  the  skin.  The  pallor  of  his  face  took  away  from 
any  robust  appearance;  but  there  was  in  him  complete  lack  of  hurry,  a  freedom 
from  strain.  He  greeted  me  with  smiling  cordiality  but  one  could  feel  that  no 
impetuous  rush  of  words  would  ever  flood  from  those  firm  lips,  as  one  could  see 
that  no  manual  toil  had  ever  disfigured  those  shapely  hands.  Something  in  the 
poise  of  his  whole  body  suggested  a  very  serene  almost  indifferent  outlook  on  ex- 
istence. It  united  to  give  the  impression,  if  not  of  marked  intelligence,  that  he 
could  never  be  guilty  of  enthusiasms  or  manifest  any  energetic  receptivity  of 
anything. 

I  had  always  heard  that  he  had  the  entree  of  every  desirable  circle,  that  he 
had  great  influence  as  well  as  great  wealth.  He  was  flatteringly  sought  after, 
and  had  the  sense  to  remain  in  a  sought  after  position.  So  far  he  had  never  deigned 
to  show  me  any  of  the  finer  qualities  of  his  mind.  There  was  no  shadow  of  dis- 
taste or  any  expression  of  disapproval  when  I  mentioned  the  engagement,  and 
asked  him  if  he  would  not  like  to  share  with  me  the  plan  for  the  day;  never  once 
thinking  I  could  be  enough  or  was  desired  for  even  an  hour  alone.  He  was  no 
Prince  from  a  Fairy  story-book,  and  flaws  in  him  as  a  comparison  were  not  in- 
conceivable, but  I  had  given  myself  no  chance  for  real  interchange.  There  is  an 
incomprehensibleness  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  inexperienced  or  the  unsuspect- 
ing. It  looks  like  density  as  to  the  full  meanings,  doings,  and  sayings  of  others. 
I  suppose  we  never  understand  anyone  but  ourselves,  and  then  only  if  we  are  very 
simple. 

I  had  looked  forward  with  bright-eyed  confidence  to  a  full  and  merry  day. 
I  was  excited — I  wanted  to  gather  all  I  could  of  entertainment  and  amusement 
for  him,  so  I  proceeded  to  introduce  him  right  and  left  to  the  beauties;  Hattie 
Sanger,  Jennie  Stuart  and  Mattie  Hill  and  whomever  I  could  reach;  brimming 
with  desire  to  display  that  attractive  young  man,  and  genuinely  eager  to  show  him 
our  Chicago  belles.  Even  on  the  train  going  and  returning  we  were  never  alone, 
and  I  became  subtly  conscious  of  dullness,  silence,  and  lack  of  response.  It  was 
plain  he  was  bored  to  extinction,  but  as  we  parted  at  our  door  he  said  gravely, 
"Many  thanks — I  will  call  tomorrow  with  your  permission."  My  stupidity  had 
made  an  incalculable  blunder. 

Mr.  Emery  was  never  an  idealist  but  he  might  have  been  something  to  my 
life.  Who  can  tell?  At  least,  a  friend  to  be  depended  upon.  His  character  and 
main  qualities  argued  for  kindness  and  faithfulness.  I  recall  now  with  a  smile 
my  all  too  palpable  blindness  which  bore  the  aspect  of  complete  indifference. 
I,  the  dull  dreamer,  wanted  to  establish  an  Empire.    I  wanted  to  conquer  a  world, 


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wanted  to  create  destiny,  and  I  never  saw  the  opening  doors.  Of  course  it  has 
always  evaded  me,  always  flaunting  something  far  beyond  any  present  possibilities, 
always  ignoring  the  personal  or  the  intensely  impersonal  at  hand — and  so  was 
never  real — and  has  never  been  realized. 

I  felt  sometimes  in  life  with  a  few,  who  thought  they  cared  deeply,  something 
possessive  and  strangely  urgent  for  a  little;  but  ending  always  in  futile  gestures. 
It  was  merely  an  inner  urge  for  complete  companionship  that  went  no  further 
and  that  in  several  instances  left  me  uneasy  dissatisfaction. 

Altogether  as  a  whole  that  visit  of  Mr.  Emery's  was  a  decided  failure  and  not 
fruitful  in  any  comfort  to  either.  He  made  his  brief  call  the  following  morning 
and  found  Mr.  Elbert  established  in  our  midst,  apparently  at  home  and  apparently 
in  confidential  talk  with  me.  The  two  men  were  not  mutually  attracted  although 
I  warmly  introduced  them. 

And  as  the  door  closed,  after  his  polite,  suave  acknowledgements  which  some- 
way emphasized  to  me  his  fastidiousness,  aloofness  and  almost  cynical  indifference, 
Mr.  Elbert  stepped  unexpectedly  into  the  hall.  It  was  then  a  flash-light  shone 
for  a  rather  blinding  second  in  his  startling  suggestion — "Are  you  going  to  marry 
that  man?"  He  spoke  in  a  sharp  curt  tone  and  the  inquiry  first  startled  and  then 
greatly  amused  me.  In  quite  a  burst  of  merriment — "I  can't  answer;  how  do  I 
know?  I  don't  see  how  it's  to  be  brought  about  as  he's  never  asked  me."  "He'd 
ask  you  quick  enough  if  you'd  give  him  a  chance — Don't  do  it — He's  not  half 
good  enough  for  you." 

The  colossal  conceit  of  the  brilliant  being  who  was  warning  me;  who  undoubted- 
ly thought  himself  good  enough  for  any  woman  on  earth;  who  certainly  thought 
himself  good  enough  for  me,  as  after  years  proved,  bringing  to  me  in  crashing 
revelation,  a  total  break  of  preparation  at  the  last  moment,  in  the  discovery  that 
the  Idol  had  feet  of  clay! 

He  made  it  forever  impossible  to  recapture  glamour,  to  drink  twice  at  that 
Spring.  Gone  forever  the  keen  joy  of  setting  out  into  unknown  regions  to  un- 
known ends.  No  further  speculations  and  high  hopes  in  pressing  on  in  the  ad- 
venturous journey.  Instead  of  romance,  disappointment  and  disillusion  was 
in  the  cup  he  held  for  me  to  drink.  Thoughts  overflow  and  run  together  independ- 
ent of  our  will.  I  was  permanently  poorer  for  promises  unfulfilled;  there  is  no 
exhilaration  in  a  backward  journey  to  dead  levels  beyond  the  vision  that  in  im- 
passioned words  and  tenderest  assurance  he  had  conjured  up.  The  light  had  come 
to  me  from  within  instead  of  without,  the  light  which- his  own  character  and  con- 
duct quenched  in  a  moment;  that,  in  its  illumination,  released  me  from  life-long 
misery,  since  it  meant  escape  and  gave  me  back  my  freedom. 

The  human  spirit  turns  back  to  its  own  for  strength  and  sustenance.  And  a 
mystical  significance  revived  in  me — I  could  not  be  long  starved.  I  was  there- 
after an  irresistible  Seeker  for  vision,  for  communion,  for  revealing,  for  the  truth 
of  feeling.  The  negation  of  life  had  no  hold  on  me,  and  the  precious  thrill  of  ascent, 
of  trying  to  climb  to  see,  to  grasp,  to  worship  nothing  could  long  take  from  me. 
The  human  heart  needs  human  associations,  vital  needs;  I  was  even  then  all  un- 
knowing preparing  myself  as  with  armour,  to  resist  blows, and  to  flaunt  my  life- 
long Flag  of  Victory. 

It  was  twenty  years  after  when  I  next  time  saw  Mr.  Emery  and  for  the  last 
time.  He  was  taking  the  "Cure"  and  I  met  him  in  Carlsbad.  He  looked  old, 
ill  and  shrunken.  That  unexpected  encounter  left  no  trace  of  special  pleasure, 
it  was  lacking  in  distinctive  warmth.  Our  exchanges  were  perfunctory  and  proved 
in  the  end  that  there  was  nothing  of  value  to  record.  His  characteristic  courtesy 
remained  but  all  interest  now  centered  on  symptoms  and  health. 

Long  before  I  had  heard  of  his  fortunate  marriage  to  a  very  charming  and 
cultivated  woman  who  became  a  patroness  of  Art.  His  name  in  Cincinnati  had 
continued  one  to  conjure  with, and  she  had  carried  on  the  family  traditions  and 
added  merit  and  sparkle  to  its  dignity  and  eminence. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem  in  this  category  that  remembrance  of  Mr.  Elbert'js 
assurance  returns;  his  thoughts,   his  speech,  his  actions  even  at    that    time  when 


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he  truly  loved  Josephine.  And  when  he  came  to  me,  long  after  her  lovely  eyes 
closed  in  death,  and  plead  so  eloquently,  I  found  his  advances  irresistible. 

He  had  loved  her  faithfully,  there  had  never  been  any  question  of  individual 
immorality  in  his  neutral  plane  of  life.  He  created  for  her  a  fine  environment 
and  they  led  a  typically  happy  life.  He  had  been  left  desolate  and  alone,  and  I 
suppose  the  balance  tipped  in  my  direction. 

But  merely  now  at  Josephine's  name  I  deliberately  walk  backward — no 
straight  or  narrow  path;  but  into  the  broad  highway — and  so  rises  a  picture  of 
breath-taking  beauty.  The  sun  flashing  its  last  rays  of  splendour  over  the  Lake, 
and,  as  it  slipped  out  of  view  in  the  West,  light  still  lingered  in  hovering  films 
of  colourful  clouds  deepening  to  orange  and  rose,  and  tones  of  ever  changing 
loveliness  till  they  died  into  the  night,  as  music  dies  into  silence. 

The  sky  and  the  Lake  were  vying  with  each  other,  the  waves  breaking  on  the 
shore — audible  strains  of  a  fading  symphony  for  the  central  figure  of  that  beautiful 
scene.  The  music  on  the  balcony  of  the  little  cottage  was  not  so  sweet  as  the  wash 
of  those  waves,  the  rustle  of  those  leaves  that  canopied  the  Wedding  Party.  We 
stood  under  the  group  of  tall  Oaks  that  made  bower  and  background  of  verdure. 
There  was  a  sort  of  unearthly  beauty  in  that  hour  and  place,  and  who  could  dream 
that  her  young  feet  were  set  tomb-ward,  that  the  Invisible  Hand  was  soon  to 
tighten  its  grasp  and  the  night  of  silence  to  enshroud  her. 

It  is  hard  not  to  leap  the  years  knowing  so  often  the  end  from  the  beginning; 
but  I  must  write  back  and  remember  only  those  joyous  days  of  my  cousin's  visit, 
the  gay  journey  that  we  took  together;  Joe  to  visit  her  dearest  friend,  Mary  Ray- 
mond, and  utilize  her  period  of  liberty  with  classmates  and  others  that  she  seemed 
eager  to  enjoy  again,    And  I — to  find  myself  in  a  new  group. 

It  had  gratified  my  parents  and  delighted  me  to  receive  an  invitation  from  the 
Simpsons  in  Philadelphia.  The  visit  there  promising  something  not  experienced 
before,  and  I  had  especially  desired  to  see  and  know  the  "City  of  Brotherly  Love"; 
and  that  distinguished  family  in  it. 

The  Bishop  had  been  several  times  at  our  house  and  was  a  very  close  friend  of 
Uncle  John  Evans.  It  was  almost  a  family  joke,  whenever  the  great  Orator  was 
to  preach,  and  the  latter  had  his  coveted  chance  to  be  among  the  hearers,  that  he 
always  deliberately  provided  himself  with  two  extra  pocket  handkerchiefs.  Very 
cool  and  indifferent  to  the  amusement  it  aroused,  for  he  declared  "it  was  necessary 
as  he  would  pretty  certainly  be  moved  to  tears  by  transcendent  eloquence  and 
must  be  prepared!"  So  that  had  become  a  habit.  We  had  as  a  family  unusually 
pleasant  relations  with  Mrs.  Simpson  and  the  two  attractive  daughters;  but  she 
was  Aunt  Margaret's  intimate  friend,  and  the  girls  loved  Josephine,  who  was  a 
frequent  visitor  in  their  home,  and  had  promised  to  join  me  there  later. 

The  very  day  after  arrival  there  came  such  a  wonderful  letter  from  Miss  Mc- 
Clintock.  The  opening  words  said  something  that  I  cannot  believe  anyone  on 
earth  could  ever  think  of  me.  "Dear  Little  Lassie — With  the  brain  of  a  strong 
man,  the  physique  of  a  gentle  woman,  and  the  heart  of  a  child."  Someway  I  felt 
ashamed — I  so  little  deserve  her  royal  generosity.  To  think  that  such  warmth 
should  struggle  through  her  natural  reticence,  that  she  ever  could  praise  me  in 
such  wonderful  words.  Surely  the  sincerity  of  her  affection  enriches  me  beyond 
all  praise. 

It  had  been  real  satisfaction  to  search  and  find  a  good  sized  and  quite  excellent 
Bust  of  Dante  before  leaving,  which  I  had  sent  as  a  suitable  Birthday  offering 
to  Miss  McClintock.  Perhaps  as  I  referred  to  incidents  that  had  lately  affected 
my  spirits,  there  had  crept  a  tone  of  depression  into  my  note  of  congratulation, 
for  in  the  beautiful  letter  that  followed  me  to  Philadelphia  she  never  once  re- 
ferred to  fears  or  dreads  due  to  the  ever  lowering  War-clouds.  She  avoided  the 
slightest  mention, and  gave  me  the  most  marvelous  account  of  the  Bees  she  hives 
and  harbours.  She  tells  me  how  her  Hives  have  given  new  meaning  even  to  the 
flowers  she  loves  and  draw  her  nearer  to  a  sort  of  intimacy  with  nature.  Oh!  she 
made  a  beautiful  picture  of  it  all  for  me!  It  was  like  a  musical  voice  from  some 
garden,  and  a  lesson  of  ardent  interest  and  skill  and  gentleness  in  handling  those 


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furious  and  mysterious  little  insects.  I  never  knew  a  thing  about  them  before, 
only  that  they  had  wonderful  instinct  and  gave  us  honey!  I  never  before  had 
the  slightest  craving  to  learn  the  laws  of  the  Hive — their  devotion  to  their  Queen 
or  the  distribution  of  their  labours.  But  now  I  can  never  forget  that  she  declared 
that  a  summer  without  Bees  would  be  a  sadly  empty  one,  and  for  her  almost  next 
to  the  absence  of  flowers  and  birds.  She  has  given  me  something  new  and  striking 
and  almost  transfiguring  to  think  about.  Such  marvels  of  industry,  such  patience, 
sagacity  and  sacrifice! 

I  was  excited  reading  her  eloquent  description  of  that  multiplying  and  mag- 
nificently organized  life,  and  from  her  point  of  view  the  Bees  gave  a  sort  of  proof 
that  we  may  not  hold  such  a  very  honourable  place  as  the  privileged  beings  we 
imagine  ourselves.  Sometimes  a  little  bit  of  knowledge  such  as  she  has  freely 
given  throws  considerable  light  on  our  own  endowments  and  position  as,  after 
all,  not  so  much  to  boast  of,  to  cry  aloud  over  and  to  shout  about! 

She  closed  that  lovely  letter  in  characteristic  fashion — she  has  to  start  early 
from  that  distant  suburban  home  to  the  Chicago  Public  School  where  she  has 
taught  for  so  many  years;  and  she  is  daily  carried  to  the  City  by  train.  She  said 
that  watching  from  the  Car  windows  the  heavy  black  smoke  that  belched  from 
the  engine  as  it  tore  by  the  train,  was,  at  first,  like  a  black  shroud,  whirling  and 
billowing  out  from  grey  to  silver,  and  then  in  snowy  curling  masses  floating  upward 
into  soft  cloud  shapes — cloud-films,  fairy  little  white  islands  melting  into  the 
sky.  And  she  added  significantly — "Just  as  soon  as  it  leaves  the  hand  of  man 
it  hastens  to  be  beautiful." 

I  thought  of  those  curling  white  masses,  folding,  unfolding,  enfolding,  that 
sweep  by  in  such  white  curves  and  spirals,  sometimes  so  gloriously  pierced  with 
sunshine  and  my  own  heart  leaped.  Yes,  I  know  what  she  means — Yes,  yes, 
"as  soon  as  it  leaves  the  hands  of  man  it  hastens  to  be  beautiful." 

I  shared  rather  proudly  most  of  the  letter  with  the  girls,  and  Sibbie  Simpson, 
the  younger,  said  enthusiastically,  "Oh,  you  must  read  it  to  Father — he  will  like 
it — do  it  tonight  at  dinner."  I  was  quite  willing,  but  I  would  not  have  consented 
at  once  except  for  the  inward  impetus  the  Bishop's  kindness  and  marked  interest 
in  our  family  affairs  had  given  me.  He  never  killed  romance  any  more  than  he 
ever  pledged  anyone  a  radiant  future  without  Faith  and  good  works.  But  his 
methods  were  open  and  easy,  and  he  disconcerted  no  one  by  fighting  strategically. 
You  never  felt  in  the  dark  with  that  great  man,  there  was  no  game  to  play  or  any 
concealed  meaning  behind  his  public  or  private  statements. 

And  that  night  when  I  gave  him  the  letter,  his  quizzical  eyes  met  mine  with 
such  an  appraising  look  that  I  dared  not  speak  a  word  to  stem  the  torrent  of  his 
rhetoric.  It  was  a  kind  but  ironic  voice  when  he  twinkled  at  me  with  a  smile 
and  read  aloud  with  suggestive  emphasis  that  quite  destroyed  my  placidity — 
"Dear  little  Lassie — with  the  brain  of  a  strong  man,  the  physique  of  a  gentle 
woman,  and  the  heart  of  a  child."  "Really,  that  is  the  most  remarkable  tribute; 
one  of  the  choicest  compliments  I  have  ever  heard,  and  in  the  finest  fewest  chosen 
words."  "Very  flattering  indeed,"  I  heard  Mrs.  Simpson  exclaim,  with  quite  a 
touch  of  satire  in  the  tone,  and  I  burst  forth — "Of  course  I  know  it  sounds  absurd, 
I  couldn't  in  a  thousand  years  deserve  it — it's  only  rhetoric;  but  then  she's  so 
generous  and  so  amazing  to  write  me  as  she  does,  and  I  can't  help  being  pleased." 

"I  should  think  not.  You  can  afford  to  be  very  proud  over  it — merited  or  not 
— that's  not  the  question.  It  is  beautiful,  and  her  description  of  her  Hiving,  and 
the  Queen's  flight  is  perfect.  It's  extraordinary.  It's  literature.  One  can  fairly 
see  the  interior  of  those  Hives  and  the  ordered  division  of  their  work.  It  makes 
me  think — and  he  sighed — of  the  profound  enigma  of  our  own  origin,  of  our  life, 
our  self-assertion,  self-consciousness,  and  all  of  which  we  are  so  proud.  How 
little  we  know — nothing,  but  for  the  Scriptural  revelation — for  more  ignorance 
results  from  unaided  study,  outside  the  Bible,  than  in  any  efforts  of  comprehension 
or  interpretation.    The  mystery  is  for  ever  eluding  us." 

I  have  always  so  loved  words  for  their  own  dear  dramatic  sake,  and  I  listened 


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thrilled.  He  did  not,  just  then,  seem  in  our  own  world — so  absorbed  in  thought. 
His  voice  drifted  down  to  us  from  somewhere  far  away. 

Emotions  become  fixed  in  recollection,  so  that  even  shadows  are  indelible, 
when  strange  or  startling  events  occur  or  something  rouses  one  spiritually,  that 
in  a  whole  lifetime  can  never  cease  to  move  us.  And  soon  followed  an  incident 
which  will  never  sink  into  oblivion. 

Bishop  Simpson  was  grave,  imposing,  impressive  and  commanding  in  pulpit 
or  on  rostrum.  Always  dignified,  a  stately  figure,  conspicuous  in  the  foremost 
ranks  in  that  stirring  eventful  period  in  our  History.  There  was  about  him  an 
imperishable  distinction — his  simplest  statements  affirmed  a  proof  more  trenchant, 
more  convincing,  than  any  oath  sworn  by  bell,  book  and  candle.  His  was  a  heart 
of  oak — that  spirit  of  daring  which  marks  the  hero,  and  without  raising  his  voice 
he  could  lay  stress  on  a  law,  and  sway  absolutely  his  hearers  to  almost  any  view 
or  side.  What  he  said  in  public,  therefore,  was  momentous,  weighty  and  invariably 
dreaded  by  opposing  factions. 

He  had  been  advertised  for  weeks  to  give  an  important  address  on  prevailing 
conditions  and  political  standpoints  at  the  Academy  of  Music  in  New  York. 
Crowds  always  gathered  in  force  to  hear  one  of  the  most  powerful  and  eloquent 
men  of  his  time,  whose  patriotism,  wisdom  and  oratory  was  only  paralleled  by  his 
wide-spreading  influence. 

It  was  one  evening  at  the  supper  table,  that,  with  one  or  two  distinguished 
guests,  I  heard  him  discussing  the  Emancipation  Proclamation,  and  condemning 
the  President  unqualifiedly  for  his  delay  in  giving  it  to  the  world.  "It  ought  to 
be  proclaimed  from  the  house-tops,  blazoned  forth  with  a  flourish  of  trumpets", 
he  added,  after  dwelling  on  the  subject,  "Delay  is  disastrous — I  can't  condone  it 
in  Mr.  Lincoln — It  seems  almost  cowardly."  He  continued  thoughtfully,  and 
with  a  slow  emphasis,  "I  have  urged  on  him  that  Proclamation,  as  have  so  many 
others  of  our  best  thinkers,  and  I  am  puzzled  and  disappointed  over  his  dilatory 
attitude." 

And  to  us,  after  the  visitors  had  gone,  "Because  I  don't  understand,  I  must 
see  Lincoln  again,"  adding  solemnly,  "In  my  inmost  soul  I  believe  further  pro- 
crastination at  this  stage  reprehensible.  And  as  I  cannot  omit  criticism  and 
severe  comment  on  such  an  all-important  subject,  I  will  state  my  own  convic- 
tions to  the  President  himself  before  I  speak  them  to  the  people." 

He  departed  the  next  day  for  Washington  and  at  the  White  House  was  immed- 
iately accorded  a  private  audience. 

When  he  returned  from  that  memorable  interview  we  all  gathered  round  to 
hear  the  result.  I  shall  never  forget  the  sad  seriousness  with  which  he  told  the 
tale — 

"The  President  was  perceptibly  aging  I  thought,  as  he  grasped  my  hand 
warmly,  when  ushered  into  his  presence.  He  looked  almost  physically  spent, 
while  I  proceeded  with  all  the  emphasis  at  my  command  to  give  again  the  impera- 
tively urgent  reasons  for  his  immediate  action.  I  tried  to  be  deliberate,  but  I 
think  I  must  have  shown  some  heat,  and  I  ended  somewhat  sharply — "Mr.  Presi- 
dent"— I  raised  my  voice  conscious  of  irritation — "I  shall  no  longer  remain  silent 
on  a  subject  I  deem  so  vitally  important.  I  have  come  to  tell  you  my  firm  belief 
that  unless  you  issue  that  Proclamation  at  once  the  Country  will  suffer,  and  you 
will  be  responsible  for  its  unpardonable  postponement.  I  have  spoken  to  you 
first,  I  have  let  you  see  what  I  think  and  feel,  and  now  I  go  to  tell  the  people. 

"During  my  remarks  he  sat  silent,  hands  loosely  clasped  and  head  bent  low, 
the  pathetic  figure  of  a  burdened  man.  As  I  concluded  and  turned  to  leave,  a 
little  indignant  at  his  lack  of  response,  he  called  my  name — "  "Bishop,  The 
Master  whom  you  serve  was  very  patient  and  long  suffering  with  the  sinner — even 
until  seventy  times  seven  He  forgave.  Could  you  not  be  patient  with  me  a  little 
longer?" 

Bishop  Simpson's  eyes  were  misty  as  he  repeated  that  sad  appeal,  and  after 
a  moment  of  impressive  silence  which  no  one  dared  to  break,  he  added  the  tribute 
from  a  full  heart  in  almost  trembling  tones  that  made  the  whole  scene  one  of 


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voluntary  homage.  "Lincoln  is  true  and  noble — he  is  our  Leader,  and  we  must 
trust  him.     I  believe  in  the  loftiness  of  his  character  as  never  before." 

I  have  heard  that  the  great  address  that  the  Bishop  gave  at  the  Academy  of 
Music  to  an  immense  audience,  was  electrifying  in  power,  that  he  counselled 
faith  and  patience  and  moderation  in  judgment.  He  made  recognition  and  ac- 
knowledgment while  stating  the  need  of  the  hour,  advising  a  quittance  of  all 
doubt,  and  an  overflow  of  thankfulness  for  what  our  Leader  had  already  done. 
There  was  no  condemnation.  He  used  his  power  to  praise;  tenacious  for  ideals 
he  swept  his  audience  into  admiration.  He  paid  open  homage  to  Mr.  Lincoln's 
transcendent  honesty  and  nobility;  and  his  eloquence  lifted  the  Chief  Executive 
to  his  rightful  throne;  compelling,  with  his  wonderful  skill  in  marshalling  facts  like 
regiments  of  troops;  and  leading  them  to  the  charge  with  such  beautifully  cadenced 
diction.  To  that  breathless  audience  it  must  have  seemed  like  the  lilt  of  bugles 
and  the  victorious  beat  of  drums. 

One  last  picture  with  its  recollection  of  conquest  is  most  vividly  coloured. 
It  was  where  stood  as  central  figure  my  former  room-mate,  Florence  Foster — a 
radiant  vision  of  victory. 

I  did  not  see  it,  Alas!,  but  one  who  did,  a  member  of  that  Parsonage  family, 
painted  the  scene  for  me  with  streaming  tears,  and  as  she  recounted  the  details, 
I  was  suffused  in  a  sudden  response  of  exultant  sympathy,  of  proud  recognition 
and  profound  enthusiasm.  It  tremendously  thrilled  me  for  all  time,  and  it  remains 
in  heart  and  mind  as  if  I,  myself,  had  participated  and  been  blessed  with  the 
glory  of  the  vision.  That  gifted  Scholar  and  Preacher,  Randolph  Foster,  was 
only  twenty  years  older  than  his  brilliant  daughter,  whom  he  often  called,  gaily, 
humourously  or  cynically  as  the  case  might  be,  "his  ablest  and  severest  critic." 
They  had  been  at  odds  in  mutually  expressed  opinions,  and  defended  principles, 
since  Virginia,  birthplace  and  home  of  the  Father,  had  joined  forces  with  the 
rebellion.  The  hot  Southern  blood  coursing  from  heart  to  head  could  not  clear 
vision,  or  develop  Northern  views  of  patriotism  in  the  mind  of  that  influential 
and  justly  admired  orator  and  clergyman.  His  following  was  constantly  increas- 
ing and  his  honours  multiplying,  as  his  splendid  gifts  were  exercised  in  sermons, 
lectures,  writings  and   debates. 

Their  differences  therefore,  radical  and  strong  alike  in  parent  and  child,  were 
often  militant  in  character  and  expression.  They  could  not  pull  together.  They 
really  could  not  pull  for  long  apart.  They  were  too  wholly  devoted  to  each  other 
and  occasional  encounters  of  fiery  vehemence  could  not  be  avoided  and  left  the 
soreness  of  a  wound. 

One  morning  of  that  January  of  1863  in  the  divided  house  sounded  a  clarion 
call! — a  call  that  resounded  through  the  silent  rooms  bringing  every  one  from 
room  to  door.  The  "Emancipation  Proclamation"  had  been  given  to  the  world. 
"Glory  to  God  in  the  Highest— Glory  to  God  in  the  Highest,"  repeated  twice — 
three  times — And  she  stood  like  some  Seraphic  vision  singing  the  Conqueror's 
Song.  Its  rapturous  cry  to  that  astonished  household  seemed  for  the  moment 
as  if  one  of  God's  angels  was  embodying  Liberty  in  human  shape  and  repeating 
its  Hallelujahs! 

That  Father,  an  awe-struck  witness,  called  sharply  from  his  Study  door, 
"In  Heaven's  name  what  is  it? — What  do  you  mean?"  looking  up  where,  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  holding  out  the  morning  paper  as  her  Country's  Flag,  stood 
the  glorious  figure  of  his  daughter  in  her  exultant  triumph.     It  was  beatification. 

And  afterward  I  was  told  that,  with  bowed  head  and  heart  stirred,  illumination 
came  to  that  gifted  Father.  The  light  shone — and  he,  grateful  for  his  consecrated 
and  pure  minded  child,  thanked  God  on  his  knees  for  the  wise  judgment  and  ful- 
filled action  of  our  Great  War  President. 

And  later,  to  his  daughter's  bursting  pride  and  joy,  to  his  family  first  and  to 
his  Congregation  thereafter,  he  made  noblest  acknowledgment  of  long  held 
errors,  and  grateful  ones  that  his  eyes  were  opened  to  the  truth. 

"My  Father!  My  Father!  he  is  magnificent."  This  she  said  to  me  when  we 
talked  of  the  seen''. 


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If  I  live  to  be  a  thousand  years  I  shall  never  forget  her  rapturous  shout  of 
victory — the  shock — the  awe — the  thrill — the  wonder  of  it— the  challenge  of 
Heaven  to  earth.     It  was  like  spiritual  ravishment. 

All  it  meant  to  the  country,  to  the  family,  to  the  individual,  to  everyone  who 
loved  Liberty  and  desired  righteousness  was  for  the  moment  in  that  human  shape. 
It  will  cut  across  space  and  ring  in  my  ears  forever  as  I  look  and  live  back.  "Glory 
to  God  in  the  Highest — Glory  to  God  in  the  Highest." 


THE    OTHER    VOICE 

My  home  always  enfolded  me  as  if  with  outstretched  arms.  The  hours  were 
precious  when  I  returned  to  it  and  the  strong  home-loving  instinct  was  vibrantly 
awake.  I  loved  to  touch  all  the  articles  in  my  room,  the  pieces  of  furniture  any- 
where, everywhere;  to  change  the  position  of  vases  and  ornaments  and  to  look 
up  at  pictures  that  looked  back  at  me  glowing,  beautiful,  welcoming.  It  was 
always  a  tryst  with  other  days  equally  happy  and  the  impulse  to  wander  from 
room  to  room  was  irresistible. 

How  sweet  it  was  to  see  my  own  again — how  I  loved  them — and  how  grateful 
I  was  to  be  with  them  once  more.  And  this  time  we  had  George.  He  seemed 
to  have  brought  into  the  house  the  heartiness  of  the  winds,  the  very  freshness  of 
the  Lake.  It  was  the  morning  freshness  of  his  youth — the  whole  of  him  glowing 
in  a  sort  of  gay  gladness  with  each  day,  and  to  me,  he  had  the  very  freshness  of 
the  Lake  about  him!  Something  had  touched  and  sealed  him  all  ours.  He  was 
elate,  satisfied  with  conditions  that  arose  from  his  decision  to  take  his  College 
course  at  Northwestern.  It  was  such  a  joy  to  have  him,  with  no  dates  of  departure 
for  Eastern  Schools.  "Don't  catch  me  at  any  Eastern  Preparatory;  the  Latin 
School  here  suits  down  to  the  ground.  I'm  never  again  going  farther  from  home 
than  I  can  help — home  for  good  this  time!"  and  good  it  was.  He  was  so  amenable — 
so  responsive — so  sporty — so  sympathetic,  and  his  boyishness  was  an  unfailing 
delight. 

So  many  days  at  that  time  seemed  to  rise  with  a  song  of  invitation.  The 
same  birds  I  had  left  were  apparently  making  the  same  cheerful  music — and  all 
the  breezes  from  the  Lake  were  welcoming  ones.  The  Lake  revealed  itself  with 
new  beauties — and  that  View  from  my  windows  offered  explorations  that  will 
last  a  life-time — new  colours — new  combinations,  tones  and  tints  that  made  an 
ever  fresh  series  of  pictures.  Beauty  can  become  so  intimate,  so  holy  that  ap- 
preciation deepens  to  reverence  and  pleasure  sharpens  almost  to  pain. 

I  had  bubbling  feelings  in  my  brain  that  I  had  to  get  rid  of,  and  I  remembered 
something  Dr.  Bevan  had  said,  when  suggesting  that  certain  course  of  reading 
which  was  so  soon  interrupted — "If  the  Ancients  lacked  knowledge  of  a  scientific 
order,  they  are  fully  compensated  by  their  visions  and  intimations  of  truth  and 
amazing  beauty." — and  so  my  vaulting  ambition  grew  to  read  and  read,  and 
learn  and  learn,  but  it  amounted  to  little. 

Life  in  the  household  was  so  often  broken  into  bits.  My  Mother  was  hostess 
to  so  many.  Our  doors  were  hospitably  wide,  but  more  to  the  needy,  to  the  clergy 
and  to  kindred,  it  seemed  to  me,  than  to  the  interesting  or  eminent.  Our  family 
circle  was  constantly  enlarged  by  relatives  coming  and  going.  My  Mother  was 
devoted  to  her  sisters,  and  the  younger  ones  had  lived  with  us  after  the  death  of 
Grandfather  Gray  until  their  marriage  which  had  taken  place  at  our  house.  My 
Mother,  whatever  the  demands,  bore  herself  everywhere,  always,  with  the  un- 
conscious, quiet  dignity  of  birth  and  breeding.  Her  knowledge  of  life  seemed  to 
be  wonderful,  and  sometimes  as  if  she  no  longer  needed  warmth  of  expression — 
but  her  great  love  for  her  husband  and  children  showed  in  her  constant  watch- 
fulness and  devotion,  which  seemed  great  enough  to  have  conquered  its  own  needs 
or  any  passionate  longings.  Her  gentle  aloofness  and  reserve  was  like  an  emanation 
of  the  spirit  manifest  in  the  flesh.    I  can  never  express  it — spiritual — humourous — 

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charming,  and  doing  kindnesses.  When  she  spoke  it  was  always  to  the  point; 
judgment  and  perception  and  other  rare  qualities  of  mind  and  heart  were  stamped 
on  her  face.     Hers  was  a  reflective  brain. 

In  the  golden  evenings  of  that  season  there  was  too  much  going  forward  in 
our  house  to  let  the  glooms  of  War  overshadow  the  comfort  and  brightness  of 
that  home-life.  Somewhere  in  me  a  bell  was  chiming — a  bell  of  such  quality 
it  rang  cheerfulness  and  hope  against  all  the  barrenness  and  bloodiness  of  the 
conflict:  one  could  almost  wholly  forget  it  when  out  in  silence  and  sunlight  that 
let  everything  lively  and  lovely  become  imaginable — almost  tangible.  And  the 
natural  goodness  of  those  about  me  had  a  certain  influence  that  curbed  wilfulness 
and  always  kept  me  from  galloping  too  far  ahead  in  wild  speculations. 

At  certain  times  however,  my  readings,  and  my  thoughts  bothering  about 
human  beings,  and  why  certain  beings  were  on  earth  at  all,  and  why  certain  others, 
necessary,  noble  and  useful,  should  be  crushed  out  relentlessly — I  would  get 
somehow  frightened  as  to  Divine  Oversight,  Divine  Love  or  Divine  Care,  until 
I  looked  at  the  shining  Lake  lying  often  so  breathless  under  the  blue  beauty  of 
the  sky,  and  all  my  fearful  visions  would  drop  and  drown  deep  in  that  Crystal 
Sea — in  its  radiance  that  seemed  to  transmit  inspiration!  Nature  supplies  the 
Soul  with  ideas  that  tell  of  life  forever  changing,  broken  up,  destroyed,  worn  out 
and  transformed,  but  continuing  in  fresh  forms — uninterrupted — Eternal.  Some- 
where on  some  summit  there  must  be  beauty,  progress,  perfection  and  happiness 
that  we  cannot  conceive,  and, however  blindly,  that  faith  always  returned: flooding 
my  soul,  and  giving  me  even  at  that  early  age  sensations  of  an  income  of  treasure, 
of  power,  of  joy,  if  I  could  only  hold  firm. 

It  was  an  exquisite  joy  just  to  believe — and  I  often  harked  back  to  earliest 
teachings,  to  anchor  myself  again  in  the  sunny  waters  of  that  happy  harbour  of 
Faith.  I  had  been  taught  and  believed  that  the  Christian  Churches  were  moral 
leaders  in  all  our  Civilization — and  ever  since  my  bout  with  the  Rev.  Andrew 
Longacre  in  Paris  I  had  begun  to  observe  more  closely  the  men  who  occupied 
Pulpits.  And  someway  the  clergy  as  a  body  was  becoming  more  interesting 
to  me.  Their  authority  was  not  so  unpleasant  as  when  special  visitors  of  the 
class  had  striven  to  bring  me  to  a  sense  of  my  sins,  and  to  reveal  my  need  of  ever- 
lasting salvation.  Now  the  situation  had  changed,  and  I  really  made  some  friends 
in  the  succession  of  ministers  to  whom  I  listened.  It  did  not  indicate  any  great 
change  of  thought  in  me,  but  I  was  less  supremely  indifferent  to  the  individuals 
who  seemed  to  have  power  to  give  us  the  "pass-word"  to  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven. 

There  were  one  or  two  studies  in  religious  personality  that  return  to  me,  and 
at  the  time  impressed  with  either  their  devotion  or  activity.  Dr.  Hatfield  for 
instance,  whose  quality  of  spirit  made  him  different  in  temperament  and  intellect 
from  those  who  by  preaching  and  personal  touch  had  preceded  him  in  the  pulpit 
of  the  Church  we  attended.  He  was  more  eloquent  than  many  others,  but  he 
never  shook  himself  free  from  rigid  theology;  and  the  value  of  his  religion  blinded 
him  to  any  claims  outside,  or  to  any  tolerance  of  other  views.  There  was  nothing 
infinitely  greater  than  his  own  ideas  and  beliefs.  I  learned  to  avoid  conversations, 
because  aware  of  a  constant  check  in  his  tenacity  of  purpose  to  shut  out  the  free- 
dom that  was  dearer  to  me  than  life.  Doubtless  there  was  serenity  at  the  centre 
of  his  being,  but  he  was  narrow,  bigoted  and  intolerant.  Nevertheless  he  was  a 
warm  friend  of  the  family,  socially  very  agreeable,  popular  and  highly  regarded. 

There  followed  the  Rev.  Henry  Cox,  whose  hirsute  adornment  and  loud  voice 
and  heavy  figure  made  him  seem  far  more  the  Sea  Captain  than  the  Clergyman. 
I  never  could  measure  or  feel  or  credit  any  Spiritual  gifts.  He  was  so  droll,  so 
merry  and  such  an  inimitable  story-teller.  Once  I  remember — for  it  was  told 
me  by  one  present — that  a  few  were  gathered  at  the  home  of  the  aged  Bishop 
Hamline  who  was  counted  a  saint — who  preached  perfection  and  certainly  had 
marked  ability  in  all  sacred  ceremonials — The  party  were  being  amused  by  one 
of  Mr.  Cox's  dramatic  recitals,  which  sometimes  almost  exhausted  credulity, 
and  sharply  in  the  midst  of  a  humourous  story  the  Bishop's  stern  accents  called 
a    halt— "Brother — Brother  Cox,   pray" — "Yes,   Bishop,"   with   instant    willing- 


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ness,  and  they  all  plumped  upon  their  knees  to  hear  a  fine  long-drawn  out  pe- 
tition to  the  Throne  of  Grace  for  Divine  justification,  and  the  Sacrament  of  ac- 
ceptance and  special  blessing.  And  springing  up,  Mr.  Cox  instantly  took  up  the 
thread  precisely  where  it  had  been  cut — "And  as  I  was  saying,  Bishop," — pro- 
ceeded calmly  with  unbroken  cheerfulness  and  perfect  composure  to  finish  his 
tale,  he  being  neither  shaken  nor  alarmed.  If  anyone  felt  the  lack  of  courage  it 
was  among  his  listeners;  the  Bishop  administered  no  further  check  or  reprimand. 
Mr.  Cox  had  no  spell  of  personal  magnetism  but  for  me  there  was  nothing  mourn- 
ful, nothing  distant  or  impassive  or  austere,  and  often  at  our  house,  never  thrust- 
ing problems  of  the  Universe  on  us,  I  enjoyed  his  somewhat  boastful  phrases, 
and  any  awkwardness  in  the  hasty  movements  simply  indicated  energy  of  heart. 

But  it  was  Robert  Laird  Collier  who  first  broke  down  the  distance  between 
pulpit  and  pews.  And  then  began  my  real  friendship  with  members  of  that  pro- 
fession, however  inaccessible  they  had  previously  seemed.  From  that  time  for- 
ward they  were  men  as  well  as  ministers,  and  I  continued  to  make  friends  with 
them  because  they  seemed  to  love  truth,  goodness  and  beauty.  I  have  forgotten 
who  said  that  Christianity  was  a  tremendous  thing  and — "Let  no  man,  believer 
or  unbeliever,  try  to  make  light  of  it."  Among  the  Clergy  and  among  the.  Doctors 
I  have  been  singularly  fortunate  in  making  friends.  The  one  taught  that  every- 
thing lay  in  Faith,  and  that  the  basis  of  all  thinking  was  acceptance  of  the  doctrines 
which  meant  absolute  truth.  And  the  others,  believing  in  absolute  truth,  sought 
for  it  in  research,  in  thinking  things  out,  in  the  simplification  of  dogmas,  and 
in  contradistinction  to  authority;  studying  the  world  and  man,  tacitly  dropping 
unworthy  beliefs,  and  demanding  freedom  for  full  investigation  in  the  realm  of 
science. 

I  felt  in  Mr.  Collier's  preaching  sometimes  that  his  mind  was  not  wholly  made 
up,  and  his  indecision  was  proved  by  his  later  uniting  himself  with  the  Unitarian 
body.  He  became  very  prominent  in  their  midst;  he  was  scholarly  and  had  the 
gift  of  oratory.  I  think  he  was  in  a  sense  a  true  mystic,  and  I  recall  with  pride 
and  pleasure  that  we  met  charmingly  in  social  matters,  and  that  he  and  his  adorable 
wife  sought  me  out  and  showed  me  many  signs  of  preference.  Our  relation  grew 
familiar,  and  if  not  spiritual  or  very  intellectual  was  neither  without  interest  nor 
affection. 

There  were  a  few  men  of  intellectual  stature  at  that  time  in  our  pulpits,  but 
their  strong  Evangelical  convictions  did  not  disturb  or  excite  me.  It  was  per- 
sonality that  I  questioned,  and  when  that  did  not  fail  I  strove  consciously  to  make 
them  understand  mine  was  no  flippant  turn  of  mind.  I  was  proud  of  a  growing 
ability  to  make  friends  among  men.  It  made  for  intellectual  development  whether 
in  business  or  professional  circles,  and  nothing  made  me  sceptical  of  my  Father's 
theology  in  particular;  for  as  Dr.  Stewart,  long  after  President  of  the  Biblical 
Institute,  wrote  of  him  once  in  a  letter  to  me — "He  by  love,  soft  speech  and  stain- 
less days,  made  known  the  Peace  of  God." 

I  have  dwelt  on  this  phase  of  my  truly  awakening  life  because  it  conveyed 
to  me  feelings  and  cordial  interchanges  so  gratifying.  I  was  grown  up — I  was 
worthy  of  notice — even  of  attention  from  high  sources.  There  was  no  mystery 
up  there  any  longer.  It  was  never  that  I  held  a  shield  for  emotions,  but  I  was 
learning  to  use  wit  and  raillery  in  a  moderate  fashion  that  made  me  agreeable 
though  never  fascinating.  I  loved  to  find  little  chinks  in  the  armour  of  an  ad- 
versary, but  too  much  self  distrust  was  growing  for  me  to  think  myself  a  casuist 
or  possessing  any  real  engaging  cleverness.  I  felt  very  keenly  the  compliment 
of  preference,  and  could  name  a  series  of  those  with  whom  I  corresponded  then 
and  later;  or  with  whom  I  enjoyed  conversations  and  discussions;  and  sometimes 
I  felt  and  responded  to  a  golden  mellowness  of  spirit  as  with  John  H.  Vincent, 
one  of  the  loveliest  and  sweetest  souls  alive,  with  far  too  much  humour  to  be  a 
bigot.  He  looked  into  the  hearts  of  men,  never  knowing  angry  distrust  of  human 
nature,  always  with  faith  in  the  supremacy  of  spirit,  and  meeting  hopes  and  as- 
pirations in  a  reality  of  service.  His  passion  for  inward  peace  had  charm  and 
humility,  and  was  of  the  order  that  could  never  shut  out  from  eternal  life  the  souls 


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that  did  wrong,  even  the  souls  of  the  wicked.  And  his  long  years  of  usefulness 
blessed  the  world.  He  was  the  great  power  in  Sunday  School  work  and  Chau- 
tauqua was  his  monument.  It  was  born  in  his  brain,  his  own  original  idea,  and 
he  started  the  Chautauqua  system  and  his  name  as  Founder  and  Director  is  a 
synonym  for  its  ideal. 

I  think  there  were  some  pathetic  examples  of  curiously  agile  brains  as  with 
Charles  Fowler.  His  world  was  a  world  of  thought,  and  he  had  too  much  intellect 
to  keep  all  tradition  sacrosanct.  He  seemed  often  striving  to  penetrate  illusions, 
exploring  in  a  region  where  no  man  can  be  master  who  wears  ecclesiastical  robes. 
He  was  a  born  Orator  and  held  large  audiences  breathless.  My  relations  with 
both  those  young  ministers  became  markedly  friendly;  at  times  they  even  read 
me  from  their  sermons  in  advance,  and  such  kindly  estimation  most  generously 
expressed  was  fully  appreciated  and  returned.  Both  those  young  ministers  be- 
came Bishops  in  the  Church,  wrought  faithfully  and  were  considered  great  leaders. 
I  love  today  as  I  began  to  love  then  the  gifts  that  mark  the  Clergy,  and  some- 
times I  like  their  atmosphere  of  aloofness  and  distance  and  dignity — if  they  can 
only  preserve  it!  But  best  of  all  I  love,  when  I  can  find  it  in  them,  the  feeling  of 
nature's  presence;  the  life  that  has  in  it  the  air  of  fields  and  birds  and  outdoor 
beauty  whatever  and  however  certain  the  diversity  of  Faith. 

The  Thinkers  and  Seers  have  been  seeking  through  the  ages.  And  we  listen 
to  Preachers  and  Philosophers  and  learn  little,  meeting  few  who  can  really  help 
us,  as  we  pass  on  with  outstretched  hand  and  ceaseless  indefinite  longings — and, 
God  grant  untiring  feet;  for  however  childish  our  speculations  and  absurd  our 
ventures  the  Seed  is  sown;  and  Oh!  if  only  the  Seed  of  Immortality  it  will  reach, 
even  in  ages  hence,  upward  to  the  light. 

And  have  not  strangely  all  the  high  emotions  affinity?  The  enjoyment  of  our 
surroundings,  the  growing  knowledge  of  beauty  in  its  high  and  pure  sense  brings 
ever  finer  experiences;  and  dispels  sad  sensations  promoted  sometimes  (as  in  those 
days)  even  by  the  wind  in  the  trees,  the  movement  of  the  clouds,  and  always  by 
the  news  and  noise  and  blare  of  battlefields.  It  was  ever  the  Breath  of  Death  and 
the  Breath  of  Life,  both  then  to  me  assuming  new  shapes. 

How  the  news  came  first  I  cannot  remember — I  think  from  Aunt  Sarah  Comings 
in  correspondence  with  Father.  She  had  many  friends  South,  as  she  had  been 
for  long  periods  in  other  days  with  her  sister,  and  was  occasionally  able  to  get 
tidings  in  little  scraps  and  at  scattered  intervals.  I  was  filled  with  regret  almost, 
the  shadow  of  remorse,  and  an  imperishable  sort  of  sorrow  hearing  of  the  long 
illness,  the  undaunted  courage  and  fierce  devotion  to  the  Confederacy  of  that 
young  bright  life  doomed  to  so  speedy  an  end.  Lovely  little  Lou  Burge  was  dead. 
She  had  once  been  so  dear  a  comrade  and  we  had  so  lately  struggled  and  fought 
with  cruel  words.  I  was  haunted  by  remembrance  of  her  gaiety,  her  pride,  her 
childish  charm  and  our  affectionate  interchanges  that  Summer  in  Bowdoinham. 
How  admiringly  I  had  regarded  her;  how  willingly  I  had  conceded  her  gifts,  and 
then  so  lately  the  violent  break  that  our  letters  precipitated.  The  War  that  so 
maddened  each  side,  creating  images  that  blinded  us  to  all  justice,  fairness  or 
even  tolerance.  Only  hard  words  to  remember  that  could  never  be  blotted  out. 
No  night  could  fall  upon  that  memory  of  unkind  expressions  and  mutual  anger 
that  had  extinguished  the  radiance  that  once  marked  with  glad  enjoyment  our 
youthful  companionship.  She  had  vanished.  She  had  said  she  hoped  never  to 
live — never  to  know  defeat.  She  wanted  to  lie  down  under  the  sod  rather  than  to 
live  and  see  her  beloved  South  conquered. 

Things  seem  to  assume  their  true  perspective  when  Death  is  nigh  or  has  snatched 
someone  from  us.  It  instantly  alters  our  outlook.  It  shows  us  stark  reality. 
It  takes  away  our  proudest  possession — self  sufficiency.  The  thoughts  kind  or 
unworthy,  the  words  courteous  or  unjust,  the  deeds  generous  or  selfish,  all  so 
often  regarded  as  trivial  or  unimportant  loom  big  and  portentious.  It  hurts  us 
to  remember  how  wc  magnified  mole-hills  into  mountains,  for  in  the  face  of  Death 
everything  shrinks  into  its  own  insignificance.  1  was  occupied  with  thoughts 
that   conveyed   nothing  of  comfort.      All   delightful   warmth   of   recollection   had 


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passed  and  given  place  to  a  feeling  of  bitter  pain  that  chilled  the  spirit  and  made 
tears  spring  unbidden  to  the  eyes. 

"That  fierce  furnace  of  the  Civil  War  is  burning  away  the  natural  ties  of 
kindred,  neighbour  and  home."  This  my  Father  said  sadly  as  he  read  certain 
pages  aloud  to  us  that  kindled  both  pride  and  sorrow  as  we  listened.  The  letter 
was  from  a  young  Officer  to  his  family  in  Chicago.  The  first  part  all  comments 
on  the  unshaken  resolution  and  passionate  devotion  to  the  Union  of  our  Army; 
and  lauding  our  Great  President,  who  makes  its  preservation  his  most  sacred 
charge.  There  was  something  so  impassioned  and  devoted  in  it.  He  asserted 
that  each  soldier  was  now  pledged  as  a  consecrated  individual  to  the  service  of 
the  whole,  but  alas!  with  victors  and  vanquished  exhibiting  rancour  and  hatred. 
He  was  a  young  Philosopher  as  well  as  a  Christian.  He  said  it  was  no  use  to 
believe  that  we  were  to  be  saved  in  the  future  by  patriotism,  by  so-called  social 
reforms  or  military  preparations — adding  that  everything  can  be  abused  and 
perhaps  nothing  was  wholly  evil. 

And  then  he  told  of  that  March  to  the  Sea  of  Sherman's  Army  as  it  crossed 
Georgia,  and  overflowed  into  the  Burge  Plantation;  destruction  and  havoc  and 
horror  in  its  wake.  No  pacification  of  the  spirit  came  through  all  that  warring 
account,  for  they  were  all  only  obeying  "The  Word  of  Command."  It  was  war, 
war,  war  and  no  cessation  of  hostilities  anywhere — instead  a  fresh  rush  of  vigour 
and  determination  to  uproot  and  to  destroy.  The  result  on  all  sides  of  appalling 
distress  was  pictured.  And  in  its  development,  but  as  no  side  issue,  he  spoke 
my  Father's  name  in  reverence.  He  told  how  he  found  his  sister — my  Aunt  Dolly 
and  her  little  daughter  Sadie — on  the  threshold  of  their  home;  how  she  had  claimed 
protection  in  the  name  of  her  family  in  the  North;  how  she  had  steadily  asserted 
her  sympathy  with  the  South.  And  answering  his  inquiries,  for  he  was  the  first 
Officer  of  the  advancing  army  that  reached  them,  as  to  why  or  how  she  felt  any 
right  to  claim  special  protection,  she  named  first  her  brother,  Orrington  Lunt, 
whose  services  to  the  Northern  Cause  were  undoubted  and  unmeasured.  My 
Father  had  splendidly  won  something  to  be  proud  of.  Something  that  stands 
for  what  men  love  and  honour  most — faithfulness  and  strength  and  unbroken 
word.    That  which  was  fullest,  best,  of  greatest  worth  in  life  was  his. 

That  young  man  had  been  one  of  the  members  of  a  Bible  Class  my  Father 
had  conducted  years  before.  He  not  only  remembered  but  revered  him  and 
lifted  his  hat  at  the  name — and  uncovered  as  well  to  her.  He  was  a  gentleman 
and  a  patriot,  and  did  his  best,  by  passing  down  word  from  Company  to  Company, 
to  keep  the  house  from  Invasion  by  an  ordered  Guard.  That  order  we  have  been 
told  was  repeated  from  regiment  to  regiment  as  they  crossed  on  their  rapid  and 
fearful  march.  The  place  of  course  was  devastated  but  the  house  remained  un- 
touched. The  slaves  were  marched  off  or  fled  in  mad  fright.  No  provisions  were 
left — nothing  outside  was  spared. 

It  was  desperate  straits  for  Mother  and  child  and  neighbours.  The  impact 
of  violent  self  assertion,  and  inevitable  revolt  instead  of  submission,  is  all  naturally 
expressed  in  an  old  Diary  of  the  time  kept  by  my  Aunt,  that  Ida  found  among 
her  Grandmother's  preserved  papers  and  a  year  or  so  ago  only,  had  printed  for 
a  small  family  or  private  circulation.  So  I  am  again  able  to  get  light  on  the  other 
side,  and  hear  "The  Other  Voice,"  which  we  of  the  North  were  most  resolutely 
crushing:  destroying  all  ideals,  and  all  ideas  of  mutual  or  friendly  relations — making 
it  impossible  it  almost  seemed  for  them  ever  to  be  renewed. 

Here  follows  chosen  excerpts  in  more  or  less  regular  succession  from  Aunt 
Dolly's  Journal. 
January  I,  1864. 

A  new  year  is  ushered  in  but  peace  comes  not  with  it.     Scarcely  a  family  but 
has  given  its  members  to  the  bloody  War  that  is  still  decimating  our  Nation.    Oh! 
that  its  ravages  may  soon  be  stopped!     Will  another  year  find  us  in  the  midst 
of  carnage  and  bloodshed?    Shall  we  be  a  Nation  or  shall  we  be  annihilated? 
July  22,  1864. 

We  have  heard  the  loud  booming  of  cannon  all  day.     Suddenly  I  saw  the 


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Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


servants  running  to  the  palings,  and  I  walked  to  the  door  where  I  saw  such  a 
stampede  as  I  never  witnessed  before.  The  road  was  full  of  carriages,  wagons, 
men  on  horseback,  all  riding  at  full  speed.  Judge  Floyd  stopped  saying:  "Mrs. 
Burge,  the  Yankees  are  coming — Hide  your  mules,  horses,  carriages,  plate  and 
whatever  valuables  you  have." — "Oh  Mamma !  What  shall  we  do?"  "Never 
mind,  Sadie,"  I  said,  to  my  little  nine  year  old  daughter,  "They  won't  hurt  you — 
you  must  help  me  hide  things." 

Follows  the  account  of  dividing  meat  to  the  servants  and  bidding  them  hide 
it;  and  gathering  linens,  silver,  clothes  of  value,  silks,  merinos,  muslins,  challis, 
all  crowded  into  chests  to  be  buried  with  other  valuables  underground.  "And 
verily  we  had  cause  to  fear  that  we  might  be  homeless,  for  on  every  side  we  could 
see  smoke  arising  from  burning  buildings  and  bridges.  The  woods  are  full  of 
refugees." 
July  29,  1864. 

Sleepless  nights.  The  report  is  that  the  Yankees  have  left  Covington  for 
Macon,  headed  by  Stoneman,  to  release  prisoners  held  there.  They  robbed  every 
house  on  the  road  of  its  provisions,  taking  every  piece  of  meat,  all  food  of  every 
sort,  blankets  and  wearing  apparel,  silver  and  arms  of  every  description.  They 
would  take  silk  dresses  and  put  them  under  their  saddles,  and  many,  many  things 
for  which  they  had  no  use.  Is  this  the  way  to  make  us  love  them  and  their  Union? 
Let  the  poor  people  answer  whom  they  have  deprived  of  every  mouthful  of  meat, 
and  all  livestock  to  make  any!  Our  Mills  too,  they  have  burned,  destroying  an 
immense  amount  of  our  own  property. 
August  2,  1864. 

Just  as  I  got  out  of  bed  this  morning  "Aunt  Julia"  (a  slave)  called  me  to  look 
down  the  road  and  see  the  soldiers.  And  there  they  were — the  Yankees — the 
Blue-Coats!  I  was  not  dressed — the  servants  came  running — "Mistress,  they  are 
coming!  They  are  coming,  they  are  riding  into  the  lot,  they  are  coming  up  the 
steps!"  I  bade  Rachel  (a  slave)  fasten  my  round  door — and  go  to  the  front  door 
and  ask  them  what  they  wanted?  They  did  not  wait  for  that  but  burst  in  and 
demanded  why  my  door  was  fastened?  She  told  them  that  the  white  folks  were 
not  up.  They  said,  "they  wanted  breakfast  and  that  quick,  too!"  As  soon  as 
I  could  get  on  my  clothing  I  hastened  to  the  kitchen  quarters  to  hurry  up  break- 
fast. Six  of  them  were  talking  with  my  women — they  were  asking  about  our 
Soldiers,  and  trying  to  pass  themselves  off  as  Wheeler's  men.  "We  are  a  portion 
of  Wheeler's  men" — said  one — "You  look  like  Yankees",  said  I. — "Yes",  said 
another  stepping  up  to  me,  "We  are  Yankees.  Did  you  ever  see  one  before?"  "Not 
for  a  long  time,  and  none  such  as  you." 

It  is  to  be  remembered  that  my  Aunt  was  born  in  Maine  and  had  lived  in  New 
England  during  all  her  early  life. 

November  8,  1864. 

Today  will  probably  decide  the  fate  of  the  Confederacy.  If  Lincoln  is  re- 
elected I  think  our  fate  is  a  hard  one,  but  we  are  in  the  hands  of  a  merciful  God 
and  if  He  sees  that  we  are  in  the  wrong,  I  trust  that  He  will  show  it  unto  us.  I 
have  never  felt  that  Slavery  was  right  for  it  is  abused  by  men,  and  I  have  often 
heard  Mr.  Burge  say  that  if  he  could  see  that  it  was  sinful  for  him  to  own  slaves, 
if  he  felt  that  it  was  wrong,  he  would  take  them  where  he  could  free  them.  He 
would  not  sin  for  his  right  hand.  The  purest  and  holiest  men  have  owned  them. 
I  have  never  bought  or  sold  slaves,  and  I  have  tried  to  make  life  easy  and  pleasant 
to  those  who  have  been  bequeathed  me  by  the  dead.  I  have  never  ceased  to  work. 
Many  a  Northern  housekeeper  has  a  much  easier  time  than  a  Southern  matron 
with  her  hundreds  of  negroes. 
November  75,  1864. 

Went  up  to  Covington  to  pay  the  Confederate  tax.  How  very  different  is 
Covington  from  what  it  used  to  be!  And  how  little  did  they  who  tore  down  the 
old  Flag  and  raised  the  new  realize  the  results  that  have  ensued. 


Sketches  of  Childhood  and  Girlhood 


November  If,  1864. 

Have  been  uneasy  all  day — at  night  some  of  the  neighbours  who  have  been 
to  town  called.    They  said  it  was  a  large  force  moving  very  slowly.    What  shall 
I  do?    Where  go? 
November  18,  1864. 

Slept  very  little  last  night.    Went  out  doors  several  times  and  could  see  large 
fires  like  burning  buildings.     Am  I  not  in  the  hands  of  a  merciful  God  who  has 
promised  to  take  care  of  the  widow  and  orphan? 
November  19,  1864. 

Slept  in  my  clothes  last  night  as  I  heard  that  the  Yankees  went  to  neighbour 
Montgomery's  Thursday  night  at  one  o'clock,  searched  the  house,  took  his  wine, 
and  all  his  money  and  valuables  of  every  sort.  After  breakfast  I  walked  with 
Sadie  to  my  nearest  neighbours  where  the  Yankees  were  yesterday — plundering 
the  house  and  driving  off  all  the  stock,  and  before  we  were  done  talking — happen- 
ing to  turn  and  look  behind — I  saw  some  Blue-Coats  coming  down  the  hill.  I 
ran  home  as  fast  as  I  could  with  my  little  Sadie.  I  could  hear  them  cry  "Halt — 
Halt",  and  their  guns  went  off  in  quick  succession.  Oh  God!  the  time  of  trial 
has  come!  I  had  hastened  back  to  my  frightened  servants  and  told  them  to  hide, 
and  went  out  to  the  gate  to  claim  protection — But  like  demons  they  rush  in — 
my  yards  are  full.  To  the  smoke-house,  to  the  Dairy,  pantries,  kitchens,  cellars — 
like  famished  wolves  they  come — breaking  locks,  breaking  whatever  is  in  their 
way.  Hundreds  of  pounds  of  meat  in  my  smoke-house  gone  in  a  twinkling;  my 
flour,  my  lard,  butter,  eggs,  pickles  of  various  kinds,  wine — the  jars  and  jugs 
all,  all  gone.  My  eighteen  fat  turkeys,  hens,  chickens,  fowls,  pigs,  many  are 
shot  down  in  my  yard  and  hunted  as  if  they  were  rebels  themselves.  Utterly 
powerless  I  ran  out  and  appealed  to  the  Guard.  "I  cannot  help  you,  Madam; 
it  is  orders."  My  mares,  my  colts,  my  mules,  my  sheep,  and  oh!  worse  than  all, 
my  boys!  (slaves) — Alas!  little  did  I  think  while  trying  to  save  my  house  from 
plunder  and  fire  that  they  were  forcing  my  boys  from  home  at  the  point  of  the 
bayonet.  Some  came  crying  to  me — big  tears  coursing  down  their  cheeks — but  a 
man  followed,  cursing  and  threatening  to  shoot  and  they  had  to  yield;  those  who 
tried  to  escape  were  captured  and  all  marched  off.  They  are  not  friends  to  the 
slave! — my  poor  boys — my  poor  boys — What  unknown  trials  are  before  you — 
How  you  have  clung  to  your  Mistress — Never  have  I  corrected  them — a  word 
was  sufficient.  Never  have  they  known  want  of  any  kind.  The  old  parents  of 
many  are  with  me  and  how  sadly  they  lament  the  loss  of  their  boys.  Their  cabins 
are  all  rifled  of  every  valuable — all  the  house  servants'  clothes — and  Rachel's 
things,  which  dear  Lou  gave  before  her  death,  which  that  faithful  house  girl  had 
packed  away  so  precious  to  her,  were  all  stolen — ovens,  skillets,  coffee-mills,  cof- 
fee-pots, sifters — all,  all  gone  and  the  poor  negroes  remaining  huddled  together 
fearing  every  moment  the  emptied  houses  would  be  burned. 

An  Illinois  Captain  came  in — Of  him  I  claimed  protection  from  the  Vandals 
forcing  themselves  into  my  home,  and  named  my  brother,  Orrington  Lunt.  And 
at  that  name  I  could  not  restrain  my  feelings.  He  knew  him,  and  I  implored 
him  to  let  my  brother  know  my  destitution.  I  saw  nothing  before  me  but  starva- 
tion— he  promised  to  do  this;  he  comforted  me  with  assurance  that  my  dwelling- 
house  should  not  be  burned,  though  all  my  out-buildings  might.  Poor  little 
Sadie.  She  went  crying  to  him  as  to  a  friend,  and  told  him  they  had  taken  her 
doll  Nancy — he  begged  her  "to  come  and  see  him  and  he  would  give  her  a  fine 
waxen  one."  (The  doll  she  mourned  was  found  later  in  the  yard  of  a  neighbour, 
where  a  soldier  had  thrown  it,  and  was  returned  to  my  little  girl.  Her  children 
later  played  with  it,  and  it  is  now  the  plaything  of  her  Great-grand-daughter.) 
The  young  Officer  felt  for  me.  He  was  surprised  that  I  had  not  laid  away,  hidden 
in  my  house,  flour  and  provisions.  His  was  the  character  of  a  gentleman.  In 
parting  with  him  I  parted  as  with  a  friend. 

That  member  of  my  Father's  Bible  Class  who  uncovered  at  his  name,  in  the 
presence  of  all  those  discords,  of  all  that  confusion,  that  depression,  resentment 
and  anger;  the  terror  of  rumbling,  rolling,  firing,  fighting,  cursing,  which  was 


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deepening  every  moment;  called  the  little  child  to  his  arms,  soothed  her  grief, 
and  promised  her  a  "wax  doll"  if  only  she  could  come  to  see  him."  He  comforted 
my  Aunt — They  were  acts  that  proceeded  from  a  personality,  from  a  nature 
exhibiting  resemblance  to  our  conceptions  of  the  higher  life,  our  ideal  of  man 
everywhere  as  our  neighbour,  which  is  the  life  and  essence  of  Christianity — 
the  life  that  needs  no  dogmas  and  expresses  itself  by  love. 

Sherman  himself  and  a  greater  portion  of  his  Army  passed  the  house  in  steady 
succession,  and  all  day  and  night  as  the  sad  moments  rolled  on  she  tells  of  their 
passing,  not  only  in  front,  but  behind,  while  the  house  was  not  once  entered. 
The  garden-palings  were  torn  down,  a  great  trampled  road  was  made  through 
the  lots  and  back  yards,  the  stock  was  being  driven  through,  fences  being  torn 
down,  utter  destruction  desolating  the  home. 

"Such  a  day!  If  I  live  to  the  age  of  Methuselah  may  God  spare  me  from 
ever  seeing  again!  My  rooms  were  full  of  poor  cowering  negroes  and  their  bedding. 
As  night  drew  its  sable  curtain  around  us  the  Heavens  from  every  point  were  lit 
up  with  flames  from  burning  buildings.  Dinnerless  and  supperless  as  we  were 
it  was  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  fear  of  being  driven  out  homeless  to  the 
dreary  woods.  It  came  up  very  windy  and  cold.  I  could  not  close  my  eyes.  I 
kept  walking  to  and  fro — watching  the  fires  in  the  distance — dreading  the  ap- 
proaching days  which  I  feared,  as  they  had  by  no  means  all  passed,  would  be  but 
a  continuation  of  horrors." 

She  watched  every  moment  all  night  and  the  dawn  still  found  her  watching 
for  the  flames  to  burst  out  from  some  of  her  own  buildings;  and  for  attacks  from 
the  soldiery  that  were  encamped  about  her — dreading  those  that  were  to  pass — 
supposing  they  would  complete  the  ruin  the  others  had  commenced.  But  the 
"Word  of  Command"  had  been  given.  No  one  molested  them.  The  house  was 
a  safe  harbour,  but  nothing  on  the  Plantation  (that  was  so  thoroughly  raided) 
remained,  and  she  was  left  poorer  by  thousands  and  thousands  and,  as  she  tersely 
adds,  "A  much  stronger  rebel".  There  follow  many  detailed  accounts  and  in- 
cidents of  her  own  experience  and  the  fellow  suffering  of  many  others  but  I  give 
only  her  closing  entries. 
January  jo,  l86j. 

I  have  felt  a  strong  desire  today  that  my  captured  boys  might  come  back. 
Oh!    How  thankful  I  should  feel  to  be  able  to  take  care  of  them  again,  and  to  see 
them  once  more  safe  at  home! 
April  29,  1865. 

General  Lee  has  surrendered  to  the  victorious  Grant.  Well!  If  it  will  only 
hasten  the  conclusion  of  this  War  I  am  satisfied.  There  has  been  something  very 
strange  in  the  whole  affair  to  me.  I  can  attribute  it  to  nothing  but  the  Hand 
of  Providence,  working  out  some  problem  that  has  not  yet  been  revealed  to  us 
poor  erring  mortals.  At  the  beginning  of  the  struggle  the  minds  of  men,  their 
wills,  their  self  control  seemed  to  be  all  taken  from  them  in  a  passionate  antagon- 
ism to  the  coming-in-President — Abraham  Lincoln.  Our  Leaders  to  whom  people 
looked  for  wisdom  led  us  into  this,  perhaps  the  greates  terror  of  the  age.  "\\  e 
will  not  have  this  man  to  rule  over  us,"  was  their  cry.  For  years  it  has  been  stir- 
ring in  the  hearts  of  Southern  politicians  that  the  North  was  enriched  and  built 
up  by  Southern  labour  and  wealth.  Men's  pockets  were  always  appealed  to, 
and  appealed  to  so  constantly  that  an  antagonism  was  excited  which  it  has  been 
impossible  to  allay.  They  did  not  believe  that  the  North  would  fight.  Said 
Robert  Toombs — "I  will  drink  every  drop  of  blood  they  will  shed," — Oh  blinded 
men!  Rivers  deep  and  strong  have  been  shed — and  where  are  we  now!  A  ruined 
subjugated  people!  What  will  be  our  future  is  the  question  that  now  rests  heavily 
on  the  hearts  of  all! 

The  barriers  between  the  North  and  the  South  as  to  understanding,  1  mean 
the  barriers  then  existing  of  traditions,  customs  and  ideals,  might  be  as  thick  and 
opaque  as  stone  to  most,  and  was,  (acknowledged,  or  in  tin-  heat  ot  attack  and 
loss  unacknowledged)  in  reality  dark  and  impenetrable,  yet  transparent  as  glass 
owing  to  her  tact,  intelligence,  and  sympathy.     My  Aunt  Dolly  had  more  insighl 


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than  most  women.  She  was  different  from  the  women  about  her  in  that  region 
because  there  was  no  real  mystery  to  clear  up  between  the  two  factions.  She 
understood  both  sides  in  measure.  Her  experience  gave  her  vision,  and  she  knew 
that  differences  in  character  and  temperament  were  bound  to  clash,  but  she  did 
not  believe  an  understanding  or  compromise  impossible,  or  that  it  would  always 
keep  up.  With  her  broad  mind,  her  sense  of  honour,  her  early  life  in  the  North, 
her  later  and  happier  one  in  the  South,  she  could  not  believe  in  complete  annihil- 
ation of  happiness  and  Union.  Aunt  Dolly's  fine  qualities  made  her  invigorating, 
and  explain  her  popularity  and  influence  and  the  affection  she  inspired.  Her 
unassailable  position,  her  helpfulness,  her  self  sacrifice  and  universal  kindness, 
marked  her  out  as  a  figure  of  prominence  and  usefulness  that  ended  only  with 
her  life.  To  the  end  of  her  days  she  was  known  and  beloved — a  source  of  sympathy 
and  helpfulness,  and  to  this  day,  as  the  Mistress  of  Burge  Plantation  and  the 
dispenser  of  bounty,  she  is  recalled  and  revered. 

But  the  end  of  the  awful  conflict?  The  killing  and  seeing  killing — the  human 
slaughtering  day  after  day,  making  combatants  lapse  into  barbarism,  for  how 
could  it  be  otherwise? — The  limitations,  assassinations,  antagonisms  increasing! 
All  attempts  at  reconstruction  showing  meanness  and  injustice — forever  moving 
against  each  other,  until  activities  and  experiences  brought  at  last  to  awakened 
consciousness  the  demand  for  co-operation,  for  tolerance  and  measurable  under- 
standing. Oh!  what  a  failure  of  our  civilization!  impressions,  recollections,  aliena- 
tion always  underneath!  It  has  left  its  mark.  It  has  reacted  adversely  on  those 
who  took  active  part  in  it.  Nothing  can  compensate  for  its  abominations.  It 
was  long,  long  before  steps  were  taken  from  sentiment  to  sympathy,  and  from 
sympathy  to  service.  And  slowly,  slowly  developed  the  Union  of  effort  and  under- 
lying purpose  for  as  little  destruction  as  possible,  knowing  destruction  meant 
War,  and  that  never,  never  until  mind  and  heart  unite  to  give,  instead  of  to  take, 
can  our  World  be  fructified,  and  the  individual  consecrated  to  the  Service  of 
the  Whole. 


THE    TENTED    FIELD 

Every  relation  entered  into,  every  City  visited,  every  fresh  event,  or  bright 
or  sad  experience  must  have  particular  significance.  The  moments  of  my  youth 
while  they  lasted  were  constantly  promising  new  fullness  of  delight,  for  secure 
in  myself  I  was  being  carried  buoyantly  forward.  I  admit  I  was  likely  to  be  a 
prey  to  vivid  fancies;  I  had  no  strong  practical  strains  in  my  nature,  I  was  an 
idealist  at  the  core;  and  possessed  all  that  enviable  assurance  of  youth,  confidently 
looking  forward  to  the  best  life  could  give,  and  believing  it  would  surely  be  forth- 
coming. Certain  changes  and  charms  in  different  surroundings  and  different 
individuals,  no  matter  where  or  how  they  emerged  into  my  range  of  vision,  threat- 
ened sometimes  to  become  too  interesting  and  too  kindling.  Some  things  precious 
or  otherwise  are  always  ready  if  we  look,  and  present  themselves  and  produce 
certain  impressions  when  we  are  sufficiently  keyed  up  by  the  shifting  scenes. 
And  there  was  nearing  a  climax  to  my  days  that  meant  the  invincible  action  of 
freshly  and  profoundly  stirred  patriotism;  an  experience  that  spread  something 
before  my  eyes  intensifying  the  whole  affair  of  existence. 

To  find  oneself  in  Washington  for  the  fourth  of  March  to  witness  the  second 
Inauguration  of  Mr.  Lincoln!  It  was  with  my  Aunt  Margaret  and  cousin  Joe 
Evans,  that  we  journeyed  to  the  Capital,  for  the  pageants,  the  processions,  the 
celebrations,  and  the  great  function  of  the  Inauguration  Ball.  We  all  felt  re- 
splendent for  that  occasion.  My  Aunt  looked  stunningly  handsome  in  her  velvet 
gown  and  fine  laces,  and  Joe  and  I  had  new  frocks  that  filled  us  with  satisfaction. 
It  was  a  wonderfully  gay  and  colourful  spectacle  but  we  got  little  out  of  it  except 
the  pictures  of  amazing  toilettes  and  the  blare  of  music.  My  Uncle  John  Evans 
had   preceded    us    to    Washington  as  he  had  important  consultations  with  the 

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President.  His  own  Official  relation  to  the  Government  gave  him  opportunities, 
of  which  he  took  advantage  to  secure  for  us  the  best  views,  and  most  desirable 
places  to  witness  and  enjoy  those  notables  and  historic  events. 

I  must  pause  here  to  tell  of  a  singular  meeting  that  swept  me  far  back  into  my 
childish  days.  It  was  our  first  meal  at  Willard's  when  my  eye  fell  on  a  girl,  seated 
almost  beside  me,  with  a  shining  crown  of  chestnut  hair.  She  seemed  slender 
and  tall  and  as  she  spoke  to  a  companion  at  my  side  I  caught  sight  of  gold-brown 
eyes.  Suddenly  glancing  at  me  there  was  a  change  in  their  quality,  a  stare  of 
amazement,  and  then  a  soft  swift  look  of  recognition  leaped  all  barriers,  breaking 
all  conventions  or  sense  of  remoteness.  "Why  Nina — Nina  Lunt!  It  is  you — 
you,  after  all  these  years."  And  something  living  and  indissoluble  established 
itself  again.  Without  an  instant's  hesitation  we  clasped  hands,  and  I  answered 
with  the  eagerness  of  soul  to  soul  contact — "Why  Carrie!  Oh!  it's  great  to  see 
you."  It  was  Carrie  Reed,  my  chosen  chum  of  Newburyport  days.  I  held  on  to 
her  at  first  as  if  she  was  going  to  melt  away  fairy  fashion.  I  was  swept  back  into 
the  current  of  that  first  Boarding-school. 

How  lovely  she  looked!  That  heavy  chestnut  hair,  the  gold  brightening 
its  brown;  those  starry  eyes  that  turned  on  me  and  seemed  drenched  in  light. 
She  was  a  vision  of  those  childhood  days,  developed  flower-like  into  the  inde- 
scribable, delicate  charm  and  added  grace  of  early  womanhood.  We  talked  a 
little  of  the  past  to  seem  to  unite  us  with  the  present.  She  told  me  the  School 
had  been  broken  up  shortly  after  Georgianna  left,  that  Miss  Mary  had  married 
Mr.  Leslie  and  died  a  few  years  after;  that  Mrs.  Spaulding  was  living  with  Julia, 
the  wife  of  a  Mr.  Stone  of  whom  she'd  heard  very  good  things;  that  he  was  an 
excellent  business  man  and  of  fine  family.  Carrie  had  as  a  child  poise  of  manner 
and  a  curious  cleverness,  and  now  was  doubly  alluring.  She  seemed  to  have 
all  her  own  adroitness  which  brought  one  quickly  under  her  spell,  and  she  was  a 
brilliant  product  now  of  her  environment.  It  was  her  training  not  her  character 
that  had  changed  her;  Continental  travel,  foreign  education,  all  making  her  a 
highly  sophisticated  woman  of  brains — She  seemed  strangely  alluring,  but  the 
real  Carrie  emerged  in  a  fashion  that  endeared  her  again,  and  proved  that  nothing 
had  prematurely  thinned  her  blood  or  could  long  keep  ardent  emotions  under 
control.  Yet  hers  was  a  cool,  competent  brain  and  not  as  impulsive  as  when  we 
were  in  partnership  in  Newburyport.  She  was  an  essentially  pretty  American, 
who  had  realized  that  in  the  art  of  dress  the  French  have  nothing  to  learn — Her 
ease  of  bearing,  the  elegance  of  her  toilette  betrayed  the  wealth  that  seems  in  our 
world  to  give  one  a  quality  of  precision,  an  assurance  of  manner,  powers  of  judg- 
ment as  to  social  rank  and  importance,  and  at  times  a  caustic  tongue.  She  rather 
daunted  me  at  first  but  someway  showed  profound  life  pulsing  within;  her  heart 
seemed  to  have  awakened  and  something  under  her  surface  tranquility  spoke 
even  before  the  announcement  of  her  approaching  marriage. 

There  remained  something  dominant  in  Carrie,  and  as  strange  to  me  as  when 
she  kicked  the  old  black  carpet-bag  full  of  those  concealed  soiled  clothes  that 
she  had  saved  from  the  wash  to  placate  Mrs.  Spaulding — who,  by  showing  me 
that  little  pile  tried  to  mortify  me;  comparing  it  with  the  heaped  up  evidence 
of  my  carelessness  and  unworthiness;  the  difference  presumably  between  a  thought- 
ful, watchful,  nice,  neat  little  girl  and  a  reckless,  extravagant,  careless,  untidy 
one.  In  that  unequal  battle  of  those  days  I  was  always  beaten  in  advance.  And 
now  Carrie  with  her  charming  smile  was  dilating  upon  preparations  on  a  large 
scale  for  the  consummation  of  what  she  had  stretched  out  her  hand  for — had 
claimed  and  appropriated,  to  crown  her  cleverly  regulated,  luxurious  life.  What- 
ever desires  she  was  conscious  of  in  that  life  she  had  secured.  Marriage  held 
for  her  attraction,  and  she  calmly  stated  that  she  "decidedly  preferred  and  did 
not  propose  to  wait  longer  for  a  home  of  her  own."  She  apparently  had  no  dis- 
quieting fancies  and  was  more  than  well  satisfied  with  her  prospects. 

I  was  in  a  mood  as  I  listened  to  be  betrayed  by  my  own  romantic  weakness, 
my  unrealized  dream.  I  suddenly  seemed ;to  see  that  I  did  not  practise  or  under- 
stand the  fine  art  of  fascination.     In  a  sense  I  saw  that  to  be  a  real  success  with 


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men,  and  to  shine  in  the  social  world,  one  must  be  determined,  and  make  it  a  goal. 
There  was  something  so  plainly  about  Carrie  that  could  conquer  conditions.  Could 
I  ever  learn?  I  felt  a  bit  reckless  thinking  these  thoughts,  but  so  far  had  never 
been  tempted  or  willing  to  pay  the  price.  Life  had  never  seemed  cruel,  in  that  I 
could  not  establish  claims  to  recognition  or  admiration  on  the  utterly  impermanent 
basis  of  beauty.  Nevertheless  I  had  learned  that  many  hopes  of  happiness  de- 
pended upon  it — and  I  worshipped  always  at  that  Shrine — for  love  isn't  at  all 
really  determined  by  the  worthiness  of  the  object.  There  was  a  sort  of  pathos 
in  my  own  magnified  reputation  for  indifference;  in  the  absence  I  suppose  of  al- 
lure; of  knowledge  how  to  attract,  how  to  draw  and  charm  the  opposite  sex;  the 
lack  of  which  began  to  rob  me  of  anticipation  and  threatened  a  sense  of  futility — 
as  of  something  never  to  be  reached  in  experience. 

The  World  as  it  is  today — and  the  World  that  we  look  back  upon  through 
thought  films!  How  the  pictures  flash  and  pass!  The  renewal  of  Youth — the 
Wine  of  Life — The  magic  mirror  that  shows  up  the  past!  Scenes  and  places 
come  so  clearly  into  the  Sphere  of  consciousness — not  dim  but  vivid  and  only 
vanishing  to  give  place  to  others.  The  whole  picture  gallery  is  one  of  changing 
moving  life.  The  thrill  of  independence  and  advancement  never  lessened.  It 
quickened  my  pulses  and  stirred  the  deep  waters  of  my  soul  in  that  brilliant  en- 
tourage.     I  was  eternally  interested  in  the  manifold  drama  going  on  about  me. 

And  curiously  enough  as  I  approach  the  climax  of  my  experience  during  the 
War,  fragments  ghost-like  and  disjointed,  incidents  nebulous,  colours  shifting 
and  kaleidoscopic  confuse  and  elude  me.  Some  of  them  refuse  to  be  caught, 
although  I  can  shut  my  eyes  and  feel  sweep  over  me  the  thrilling  sensations  of 
actual  experience.  Mine  was  a  vicarious  excitement  during  those  last  days  of 
War;  as  mine  was  more  than  a  distant  faint  viewing  of  the  struggle  of  moving 
forces,  in  my  own  awe-struck  staring  at  the  silent  waiting  Army  encamped  and 
waiting  for  final  orders.  General  Grant,  understanding  the  whole  situation  so 
soon  to  be  settled,  was  reaching  out  for  more  than  the  stronghold  in  possessing 
Richmond.  He  wanted  Lee's  army,  and  it  was  the  period  when  they  feared  or 
dreaded  successful  retreat,  the  Garrison  escaping,  and  that  the  Army  of  the  Po- 
tomac would  awake  to  find  themselves  guarding  nothing.  The  grim  irresistible 
persistence  of  the  great  Commander  had  moved  relentlessly  forward  and  the 
doom  of  the  Confederacy  was  already  settled.  He  had  been  beleaguering  Peters- 
burg, and  was  sure  of  taking  Richmond.  The  bloody  and  incessant  campaigns 
were  over.  Brilliant  and  important  achievements  had  contributed  in  hand- 
fought  battles  and  gallant  deeds,  and  patient  waiting  had  shattered  forever  the 
power  of  the  Confederacy  and  reduced  the  grey  uniformed  Troopers  to  where 
they  could  no  longer  threaten. 

The  great  men  of  that  era  are  only  comprehensible  upon  broad  lines,  their 
powers  or  capacities  cannot  be  agreed  upon  or  expressed  in  formulas  or  distinct 
phrases.  The  striking  prominence  and  magnificent  character  of  Mr.  Lincoln 
sets  him  apart.  My  Father's  admiration  had  been  aroused  to  reverence,  and  he 
wanted  his  children  to  have  a  picture  of  that  man  of  greatness  and  profound 
faith,who  seemed  in  the  breadth  and  variety  of  his  own  individuality  to  have  run 
through  the  whole  gamut  of  human  nature.  To  secure  us  the  opportunity  of 
close  vision,  and  a  special  "introduction",  he  had  joined  me  in  Washington  and 
had  summoned  my  brother  Horace  from  Andover  to  meet  him  on  a  specified 
date  as  soon  as  he  arranged  for  that  momentous  interview.  No  sponge  can  pass 
over  that  slate  where  is  written  that  experience. 

Perhaps  I  never  knew,  certainly  I  cannot  remember,  how  later  "The  Pass" 
was  secured  for  me,  signed  by  Abraham  Lincoln,  or  on  what  business  for  the 
Government  it  was  that  sent  Mr.  Benedict  to  and  fro  from  the  Front.  Evidently 
he  settled  it  all  with  the  Authorities  and  my  Father,  to  give  me  the  realization 
in  actual  vision  of  the  might  of  Armies,  the  sight  and  nearness  of  soldiers  who 
had  not  ceased  to  struggle  and  suffer;  who  had  borne  and  met,  and  not  failed  to 
realize,  the  tide  so  often  stronger  than  they. 

And  now  emerges  into  prominence  my  one  almost  incredible  experience — 


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my  visit  to  The  Front — my  stay  at  City  Point — my  sight  of  the  Army  of  the 
Potomac  which  I  was  told  I  was  the  last  to  visit  before  it  moved  toward  Rich- 
mond to  receive  General  Lee's  surrender  and  sword. 

Such  a  little  incident — such  a  mere  trifle — a  mistake — a  blunder  gave  me  the 
much  coveted  permission.  How  strange  that  things  of  moment  hang  by  so  slender 
a  thread,  and  we  gain  or  lose  thereby  and  know  not  why.  It  was  surely  not  the 
fault  of  Mr.  Benedict's  writing,  which  was  unusually  clear,  but  passing  through 
intermediate  and  Official  hands  Nina  G.  Lunt  had  become  Nina  G.  Sweet — pro- 
bably the  first  letter  of  my  name  twisted  easily  from  L  to  S,  and  the  two  letters 
between  L  and  T  could  easily  be  read  wrong.  The  fact  remains  that  when  handed 
to  Mr.  Benedict  his  dismay  was  only  equalled  by  his  conviction  that  to  get  it 
corrected  would  involve  delay  and  perhaps  defeat.  In  his  elaborate  explanation 
he  told  us  that  he  gravely  doubted  any  possibility  of  rectifying  that  error,  and 
soothed  my  annoyance  by  assuring  me  that  on  arrival  I  could  claim  and  wear 
my  own  title  to  consideration  as  "O.  Lunt's  Daughter",  which  I  still  felt  my 
chief  honour,  as  certainly  as  I  did  in  that  first  childish  effort  to  write  it  proudly 
on  a  card — the  tiny  card  my  Father  cherished  and  which  is  still  intact — preserved 
as  a  memento  of  my  very  earliest  days. 

So  many  gaps  that  memory  cannot  fill.  I  cannot,  as  I  would  like  reconstruct 
that  wonderful  visit  to  City  Point  and  the  Army  Headquarters — in  a  sense  simple 
— exciting  to  me  then — giving  thrill  on  thrill,  sensations  different  indeed  from  the 
ordered  trammeled  ways  of  life  I  was  used  to,  but  yet  not  fully  aware  of  its  epochal 
importance.  Now  my  thoughts  are  not  accurate  enough  after  all  the  stretch  of 
crowded  years  to  do  the  scenes  and  time  justice,  but  the  ultimate  certainty  comes 
to  me  that  however  faint  the  outlines,  or  dim  the  pictures,  it  was  the  most  unique, 
the  most  fascinating,  the  most  exciting  and  the  most  amazing  experience  of  my 
young  life. 

The  influence  which,  I  never  comprehended  nor  measured,  had  secured  me 
shelter  in  the  Barrack-like  building,  where  the  young  wives  of  certain  prominent 
Officers  were  allowed  to  wait  at  City  Point  for  a  season.  The  small  rooms  almost 
like  cells,  side  by  side,  hardly  I  thought  allowed  desirable  or  necessary  privacy, 
but  it  had  all  been  divided  off  for  a  temporary  and  relatively  convenient  occupancy. 

Through  all  the  mist  of  the  years  there  comes  back  to  me  the  lovely  image 
of  one  fragile  and  appealing  woman,  so  different  from  the  gay  young  wives  gathered 
there  that  she  remains  as  of  vivid  variety  of  Spiritual  Genius,  yet  far  removed 
from  any  arts  of  fascination.  Her  delicate  colouring,  the  very  exquisite  pallor 
of  her  face  was  arresting — her  hair  of  pale  gold,  her  eyes  both  light  and  dark, 
her  figure  tall,  slim  and  straight;  there  was  about  her  a  sort  of  untouched  per- 
fection, a  luminous  softness — rainbow  tinted.  There  are  people  as  well  as  things 
so  indelibly  printed  upon  the  memory  that  they  are  permanent  possessions  not 
to  be  lost  in  the  years.  She  has  never  dissolved  like  other  experiences  and  pic- 
tures, and  I  look  upon  a  few  great  moments  of  communion,  irresistible,  passionate; 
perhaps  unrecognized  yet  formative,  and  shadowing  possibilities  that  encouraged 
me  in  that  strange  world  where  the  Soul  wanders  alone,  and  where  one  defends 
the  Citadel  of  being. 

Mrs.  Clendennin  was  the  wife  of  the  Chief  of  Staff.  Intelligence,  sincerity, 
fineness,  mastery  was  on  that  Colonel's  face,  and  his  gallant  life  had  marked  him 
a  soldier  with  no  time  his  own  for  four  full  years.  A  life  of  strenuous  days  and 
constant  action;  and  his  eyes  were  sad  with  a  sort  of  prophetic  vision  in  them. 
Someway  those  two,  I  only  saw  them  together  once,  satisfied  all  my  tastes  for 
they  seemed  doubly  irradiated  by  light  within  and  light  without.  And  after  her 
husband  left  the  following  morning  she  talked  not  as  a  new  acquaintance,  but 
almost  as  a  friend  to  an  understanding  friend.  And  I  felt  keenly,  suddenly  the 
tragic  despair  of  the  War.  There  was  about  her  an  irrepressible  sense  of  lost 
joys — as  if  the  joy  of  life  that  one  would  die  for  was  no  more. 

"The  War  has  been  so  horrible;  you  cannot  imagine  how  horrible  it  is  seen 
from  the  inside.  War!  War!  and  one's  Treasure-Ship  slipping  out  of  harbour 
while  one  watches — sailing — sailing — sailing   if  not  to  dip  down   into   darkness 


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yet  storm-struck  and  dismantled.  Out  of  sight  so  long,  and  never  to  return  the 
same.  At  first  I  was  so  happy  I  could  hardly  bear  it,  and  then  before  long  I  was 
made  to  see  the  unhappy  side  of  life — the  partings — the  ending  of  the  glad  things 
that  come  with  the  beginning  of  new  ones — our  joy  had  been  too  great  not  to 
bring  sorrow  in  its  wake."  Her  words  shone  like  a  lamp  revealing  herself,  and  I 
never  once  woke  up  or  thought  I  had  involuntarily  blundered  into  a  Sanctuary. 
Eager,  enthusiastic,  and  impassioned  at  that  period,  yet  painfully  blind  to  pro- 
found realities,  how  was  I  to  know  the  quality  of  the  gifts  her  personality  and 
words  bestowed?  I  was  capable  of  extravagantly  devoted  moods,  and  for  three 
days  I  sat  at  her  feet,  and  listened  to  counsels  and  confidences  that  must  have 
come  from  her  absolute  ultimate  self.  Imagination,  insight  did  not  tell  me  but 
those  words  which  I  have  never  forgotten,  as  well  as  features,  gestures  and  looks, 
gave  me  a  lasting  impression  of  reverence,  almost  of  awe. 

And  now  every  faculty  of  my  being  rallies  to  description  of  that  something 
beyond  the  reach  of  art — set  off  as  a  sort  of  special  jewel — flower,  rose  or  lily,which 
had  bloomed  and  was  ever  so  gently  fading,  and  yet  could  never  lose  its  supreme 
fairness.  She  was  so  removed  from  the  others,  and  even  in  her  silence  there  was 
a  sort  of  vibrant  significance,  and  her  face  wore  a  look  I  can  never  forget,  the  look 
of  one,  if  I  can  express  it, who  has  looked  over  the  edge  of  life  into  its  surrounding 
dark;  and  yet,  sorrowful  as  it  had  struck  me,  I  saw  a  glint  of  humour  sometimes, 
as  wearing  her  tired  gallant  smile  she  listened  to  me;  an  ignorant,  unsophisticated 
confident  young  girl — not  self-centred  but  in  a  subtle  sense  self-satisfied.  One 
thing  can  be  said  in  my  favour  then  and  always,  I  was  not  distinctly  frivolous. 
In  surging  talk  I  told  her  what  I  had  never  breathed  to  others,  all  about  my  "  Dream 
Prince",  and  my  friend,  Mr.  Chandler,  and  Dr.  Bevan,  and  she  put  her  arms 
about  me  and  said  "No  one  could  go  through  life  without  loving,  that,  in  com- 
parison, being  loved  was  nothing — it  hardly  counted."  From  that  moment  emo- 
tions quieted  that  I  had  encouraged.  I  thought  of  them  as  "Knights-Errant", 
never  as  possible  lovers. 

"You  must  learn  not  to  give  divine  irrelevant  things  to  people.  It  is  useless 
to  strain  fancy,  by  painting  and  desiring  what  after  all  are  nothing  but  works  of 
Art  you  have  yourself  created.  You  are  aching  to  give  or  do  things;"  and  she 
turned  the  full  light  of  her  intelligent  sympathy  upon  me.  She  drew  me  out  in 
a  thousand  ways,  until  reticence  and  shyness  vanished,  and  with  a  sort  of  trembling 
eagerness  all  my  incoherent  dreams,  my  foolish  hopes,  my  impossible  ambitions 
just  toppled  out  before  her  in  a  fervour  of  ardent  conviction,  confidence  and 
desire,  and  we  stepped  immediately  into  a  mutual  understanding.  Memories 
can  fit  words  and  feelings  to  those  hours,  as  our  last  talk  returns  to  move  my 
tenderest  feelings. 

"I  used  to  watch,"  she  said,  "the  bright  face  of  dawn  breaking  through  in 
glorified  mornings  and  thank  God  in  light-hearted  exultant  happiness.  We  were 
so  gay,  yet  I  suppose  it  must  be  that  we  were  serious  at  bottom,  but  whatever 
happened  how  could  we  ever  become  so  quiet  and  elderly?  I  was  not  born  elderly, 
yet  someway  my  very  sense  of  humour  has  become  so.  This  cruel  War  changing 
him — changing  me — changing  everything — only  teaching  of  pain  and  death — 
cruel,  ruthless,  terrible  death — Death  rigid,  implacable,  mysterious — Death  even 
in  life.  I  find  I  cannot  stand  it  much  longer.  I  want  to  get  away  from  the  en- 
veloping coldness,  the  aloofness,  the  loss  of  warmth  and  confidence.  I  want  to 
bury  something  deeper  and  deeper  and  forget  myself — forget  everything.  Once 
I  thought  myself  ready  for  anything — The  danger?  Why  we  would  not  let  our- 
selves speak  or  think  of  it.  It  was  all  glory  and  drum-beating  and  music  and 
patriotic  voices.  How  could  one  care  who  lived  or  died  then?  And  now  it  is  enough 
to  set  one  raving  mad — the  mere  thought  of  that  awful  resistance  to  breathing — 
the  awful  wounds — the  gasping  anguish — the  brutalities  rampant — horrible 
realizations  of  horror — What  is  there  in  it  of  the  Divine?  And  Oh!  where  is  and 
how  is  it  ever  possible  to  save  humanity  from  spiritual  destruction." 

I  have  never  gotten  away  in  my  long  life  from  the  memory  of  those  words. 
And  though  we  were  never  again  together  since  that  day  I  remember  her  with 


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gratitude  for  the  honour  paid  me,  and  a  peculiar  tenderness  appeals  insistently 
as  I  think  and  write! — "Ships  that  pass  in  the  night?" — Yes — but  we  had  hailed 
each  other!  And  I  can  neither  forget  nor  cease  to  give  thanks  for  the  good  for- 
tune that  gave  me  in  early  youth  that  brief  association,  and  all  the  magical  ex- 
perience of  the  day  that  followed. 

The  first  Soldier  of  the  North,  General  Grant,  who  had  never  taken  a  step 
backward,  had  his  head-quarters  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  hastily  constructed 
barracks  where  we  were  accommodated.  I  saw  him  often  and  remember  his  rather 
short,  stocky,  middle-sized  yet  martial  figure,  his  uniform,  his  Stars,  and  the 
military  hat  low  down  over  the  eyes.  He  was  always  placidly  pulling  at  the  ever 
present  cigar.  He  looked  a  Statue  of  calm  wherever  he  moved.  It  was  impossible 
to  imagine  nervousness  in  him.  He  seemed  even  stolid  to  the  shallow  observer — 
He,  who  incarnated  might  and  the  mastery  of  men! 

I  recall  him  again,  and  I  must  step  forward  into  the  future  to  several  years 
after  when  I  was  again  in  Washington,  and  for  part  of  that  Winter  the  guest  of 
our  friend,  Airs.  John  H.  Logan,  the  wife  of  the  senior  Senator  from  Illinois.  Mrs. 
Logan  was  so  popular,  so  wise,  so  diplomatic  and  accomplished,  that  she  was 
admired,  sought  after,  and  considered  as  one  of  the  most  influential  members 
of  the  inmost  Official  circle  at  the  Capitol.  More  than  once  I  was  taken  to  the 
White  House  and  witnessed  the  friendly  almost  confidential  relations  existing 
between  my  clever  Hostess  and  the  President's  distinguished  family.  I  met 
General  Sherman,  General  Sheridan  and  many  of  the  great  men  of  that  time 
frequently,  and  almost  intimately  at  her  house.  I  am  tempted,  you  see,  by  rushing 
reminiscences  to  leap  forward  in  point  of  time,  but  I  must  shut  them  back  and 
return  to  where  General  Grant  sat  down  before  Richmond.  The  Army  of  the 
Potomac  was  having  its  Watch,  General  Meade  in  command,  and  Mr.  Benedict 
was  not  encouraging,  after  the  first  day,  as  to  any  prospect  of  my  visiting  "The 
Front"  as  he  had  hoped  and  promised.  The  expected  move  of  the  Army,  and 
the  tremendous  plans  were  all  on  too  large  a  scale  to,  apparently,  permit  notice 
or  assent  to  such  an  application. 

I  had  been  led  to  believe  that  the  request,  passing  from  Mr.  Benedict  to  Colonel 
Clendinnin,  was  even  brought  by  the  Chief  of  Staff  to  the  Great  Commander 
himself — but  I  doubt  it — that  was  never  substantiated;  only  I  do  know  that 
all  of  them  were  made  aware  of  the  state  of  things  which  might  be  considered  as 
an  impasse.  Some  of  the  ladies  said  to  me  "that  it  was  wholly  out  of  the  question, 
and  they  never  would  have  thought  that  anyone  would  dream  at  such  a  period  of 
expecting  a  favourable  answer." 

But  one  day,  when  everything  seemed  extraordinary  rather  than  natural,  Mr. 
Benedict  returned  from  the  Front  and  joyfully  announced  his  success.  I  was 
greatly  excited  and  could  not  help  joining  in  his  amusement  when  he  related  the 
incident  which  he  declared  he  verily  believed  had  settled  the  mooted  question. 
When  General  Meade  held  "The  Pass"  and  scrutinized  it — of  course  it  was  Mr. 
Lincoln's  signature  that  did  the  business — as  he  handed  it  back  he  remarked, 
with  a  smile,  "I  don't  see  how  we  can  ever  refuse  that  name!"  I  fear  Lunt,  highly 
as  I  regard  it,  might  not  have  appealed  as  succulently  as  "Sweet"  to  that  gallant 
General! 

And  with  these  recollections  while  pictures  of  the  past  cannot  unroll  them- 
selves as  a  whole  and  give  all  details,  much  can  be  recalled  to  reveal  the  vast 
difference  in  that  day,  as  a  climax  to  all  the  other  days  of  the  War;  for  "The  Day" 
held  a  sort  of  glory — nothing  of  the  prosaic — so  much  of  the  unexpected  and  the 
wonderful.  I  felt  tremendously  proud  of  my  privilege  and  I  could  with  no  effort 
suitably  express  it.  Some  things  transcend  the  magic  of  imagination.  I  was 
brimming  with  romance  and  ripe  for  adventure.  Youth  sees  only  that  time  and 
space  are  boundless,  and  shapes  dreams  and  plans  accordingly.  That  day  with 
its  beauty  meant  everything  to  me.  I  was  to  see  our  Army  encamped.  I  was 
going  to  the  Front.  Now  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  impress  all  I  met  with  my 
own  fortitude  as  well  as  loyalty.  The  soldiers  who  had  dared  and  suffered  and 
endured  must  feel  no  affront  because  of  lack  of  appreciation,  or  of  distinct  and 


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demonstrated  enthusiasm  of  loyalty.  I  hugged  to  my  breast  the  thought  of  the 
victories  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac.  There  was  such  vastness  and  joyousness 
in  the  experience.  It  was  a  proud  joy  and  a  proud  pain.  Mine  had  become  a 
passionate,  fierce  preoccupation  with  the  thoughts  and  feelings  Mrs.  Clendennin 
had  aroused,  and  everything  appealed  to  my  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things,  the 
wonder  of  the  vision  as  we  neared  the  great  Camp,  and  the  sight  swept  before 
me,  the  long  straight  lines  of  white  tents,  a  city  of  them!  There  were  narrow 
lanes  between  the  long  stretches  and  spaces  of  that  wide-spread  "Tented  Field". 
The  remarkable,  countless  number  of  those  low  white  covered  shelters,  (temporary 
homes  while  was  being  played  the  great  and  awful  game  of  War)  fairly  awed  me. 

It  was  a  train  of  small  cars  carrying  stores  and  needful  things  that  took  us  to 
the  Camp.  Nothing  but  trucks  or  miniature  enclosed  baggage-cars — transports 
for  the  wounded.  It  was  indeed  a  strange  sensation  to  find  our  only  place  must 
needs  be  in  the  Engine-cab  where  we  must  make  ourselves  as  small  and  incon- 
spicuous as  possible.  They  lifted  me  up  and  inside,  and  someway  I  felt  like  a 
racing  engine  myself.  My  mind  was  preternaturally  alert;  anticipation,  excitement 
and  delight  made  every  thought  sharp-edged — distinct — fancies  flashed  and 
flickered  one  upon  the  heels  of  another,  so  that  as  we  jogged  along  or  raced  along 
up  and  down,  through  fields  and  hollows,  and  over  small  hill  sides  I  trembled  in 
a  sort  of  rapture.  The  road  made  hair-pin  turns,  the  track  closely  paralleled, 
a  curving  bank  at  times,  nothing  precipitous  until  we  sheered  into  a  cut  and  the 
engineer  called  out  a  sudden  warning,  "Duck  here — they  sometimes  get  us — 
don't  lean  out — duck  your  heads,  quick!"  A  sudden  tightness,  a  queer  deadly 
apprehension  clutched  at  my  chest.  My  whole  body  felt  taut  and  strained,  I 
was  almost  breathless  as  we  passed  the  point,  and  I  heard  the  engineer  chuckle 
when  I  lifted  my  head  to  peer  around  with  a  gaze  more  physical  than  mental. 
Once  more  I  heard  the  engineer  cry  out,  "Be  careful  here,  they  may  try  to  shell 
us."  I  quivered  so,  and  had  become  conscious  only  of  listening — listening  again, 
straining  eyes  and  ears  for  the  attack.  Danger  really  did  not  exist,  but  I  had 
been  envisaging  it  where  always  before  and  until  then  I  had  felt  security.  "You 
are  pale,"  said  Mr.  Benedict  with  a  laugh.  "Don't  you  know  the  man  is  jesting? 
He  wants  to  see  you  frightened  a  second  time.  I've  been  over  this  road  more 
times  than  you  can  count,  and  I  never  heard  of  a  disturbance  but  once." 

The  fear  that  second  cry  had  aroused  was  gruesome.  I  thought  of  the  hosts 
of  wounded  soldiers  who  had  come  to  death  and  suffering  all  about,  of  whom  I 
had  heard  daily  at  City  Point  but  happily  had  never  seen.  It  was  a  queer  singing 
in  my  ears  for  a  second.  But  the  sky  was  a  tranquil  blue.  The  sun  poured  a 
wash  of  gold  over  all  the  land,  and  the  air  was  fresh  and  fine  and  smelled  of  Spring 
at  its  loveliest.  It  was  all  call  and  allure  when  at  last  the  engineer  handed  me 
out  of  that  little  Cab.  We  had  slipped  and  jolted  quite  long  enough  over  rails 
on  tires  carelessly  laid,  seemingly  with  no  bedding  at  all.  At  first  it  had  seemed 
to  me  as  if  we  were  just  slipping  and  crashing  over  the  rough  ground;  up  a  slope, 
down  a  slope,  sometimes  almost  plunging  forward.  But  the  sweet  breath  of  the 
fields  or  near  woods  or  far  waters,  of  ferns  and  forests  and  masses  of  unknown  • 
growths,  mingled  with  and  made  me  adore  the  flat  surrounding  landscape. 

We  descended  to  meet  Major  Rhoades — a  soldier  from  his  spurs  up,  straight 
standing,  almost  as  if  on  Parade  when  he  saluted  and  welcomed  us  with  such 
pronounced  affability.  He  was  distinguished  if  not  strictly  handsome,  an  Officer, 
a  gentleman  and  a  sportsman.  He  looked  the  true  soldier,  with  a  true  soldier's 
ideal,  as  I  saw  him  that  first  moment — and  shall  always  see  him.  The  picture 
comes  back — dark  hair,  close-shaven,  clean-cut  features,  goodly  limbs  and  shoul- 
ders, faded  sash,  straight  sword,  and  tall  boots.  About  him  there  must  have  been 
a  spiritual  cleanliness  although  he  was  alight  with  humour.  He  impressed  me  as 
an  embodiment  of  gallantry,  courtesy,  humour  and  a  patriotic  sentiment  which 
was  the  true  spirit  of  the  Army. 

I  had  caught  the  half-appraising,  distinctly  curious  glance  with  which  he 
first  uncovered,  acknowledging  Mr.  Benedict's  mention  of  my  name,  but  as  he 
conducted  us  to  his  tent  I  felt  I  was  in  the  presence  of  one  fine  enough  to  be  the 


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hero  of  some  novel,  and  could  pile  item  after  item  of  praise  for  his  looks,  bearing, 
manner  and  cordial  greeting.  And  I  experienced  an  increased  warmth  of  ad- 
miration as,  with  an  indicated  graceful  compliment  and  congratulation  over  the 
arrival  of  their  guest,  he  introduced  me  to  a  few  companion  Officers,  who,  hearing 
of  the  advent,  and  that  the  strange  young  lady  was  to  be  entertained  by  General 
Meade's  Staff,  had  sauntered  in.  I  suppose  they  had  been  invited  to  the  Luncheon 
that  was  later  to  be  set  out  in  my  honour.  I  tried  not  to  be  nervous,  but  looking 
at  Major  Rhoades'  finely  cut  features  I  saw  the  slightly  sarcastic  curve  to  the 
lips,  matching  a  sort  of  defiance  in  the  eyes,  and  noticed  a  finished  touch  of  arro- 
gance in  manner, yet  believed  it  to  be  unconscious  and  perfectly  natural.  Oh! 
what  dullness  in  all  other  days  compared  to  this!  Fiction  itself  became  a  mirage 
in  comparison. 

There  was  a  sort  of  dare-devil  air  to  some  of  the  other  chosen  heroes  who  had 
been  presented,  and  sat  down  with  us  to  the  early  mid-day  repast  in  his  tent. 
They  called  it  a  feast,  and  drank  to  my  health  first,  and  then  to  eternal  damnation 
of  their  enemies!  Later  they  cut  out  from  black  paper  a  head  to  shoot  at  calling 
it  Jeff  Davis;  I  had  never  handled  fire  arms  but  they  declared,  laughing  merrily, 
that  "they  could  give  directions  easy  to  follow,  and  they  were  sure  I  would  be 
tractable  as  they  wanted  me  to  put  a  bullet  through  the  Confederacy."  I  looked 
aghast  at  the  weapon,  cocked  and  prepared  and  placed  in  my  shaking  hand,  and 
heard  my  own  voice  in  hasty  words — "Why  I  couldn't  shoot  at  Jefferson  Davis; 
I've  met  some  of  his  Officers  and  they  were  perfect  gentlemen — They  stood  at 
salute." 

Their  amazement  was  immense — "Why  how  is  that?  You  can't  fire  at  our 
arch  enemy?"  "So  Jeff  Davis  has  escaped  again,"  said  one  of  the  group  ironically. 
"Astonishing  that  we  have  a  friend  of  his  among  us,"  interrupted  another.  I 
flushed  with  embarrassment,  and  I  felt  the  cold  blanket  that  was  wrapping  en- 
thusiasm as  I  tried  to  make  playful  retort  and  assurance  of  my  perfect  loyalty 
to  our  Cause.  Their  looks  asked  for  explanation,  and  I  began  the  tale  of  that 
evening  encounter  at  the  Sims  in  New  York,  and  actually  they  all  rose  before 
I  finished  the  description  of  friend  and  foes.  "Another  salute",  said  one  pleasant 
voice,  and  they  all  bowed  in  an  amused  and  half  satirical  fashion — "Clever,  by 
Jove!  to  get  out  of  that!" — "A  tight  place,"  and  very  kindly  comments  followed. 
"No  wonder  you  don't  want  to  kill  their  President;  those  were  certainly  fine  chaps, 
but  mind  you,  he's  not  of  their  sort — no  ounce  of  chivalry  in  him."  And  such  good 
stories  as  they  told  while  we  sat  around,  and  so  picturesque  as  they  all  looked, 
and  so  highly  coloured  is  the  scene  for  me  to  remember.  The  whole  experience 
was  bewitching,  the  actual  visible  marvelous  illustration  of  martial  reality,  the 
abundance  of  romance  in  its  ripest  perfection  made  fiction  needless  and  imperti- 
nent. 

Table  talk  and  saddle  talk  was  all  I  heard,  no  reference  to  War  and  its  move- 
ments. I  remember  vividly  their  complete  reserve  in  that  respect  with  no  escape 
valve.  And  I  have  since  quite  well  understood  that  only  my  youth,  my  sex,  the 
rarity  of  a  guest  and  the  boredom  of  their  days,  could  account  for  or  explain  their 
evident  interest,  watchful  attention,  and  open  purpose  to  make  the  visit  enjoy- 
able. I  was  not  beautiful — I  was  not  a  Sport — I  was  not  accomplished  in  their 
lines.  I  could  neither  ride  nor  shoot  nor  show  my  pent  up  thoughts,  but  a  reck- 
less feeling  pervaded  me.  I  could  dare  anything,  and  when  I  heard  my  host's 
courteous  voice  say,  as  if  in  assured  statement — "You  ride,  of  course!"  It  was 
then  that  intense  repressed  excitement,  that  intense  desire  to  please,  that  intense 
belief  that  in  the  nature  of  things  I  had  no  choice  that  but  must  be  equal  to  all  de- 
mands, explained  and  accounted  for  the  swift  but  baseless  affirmative.  I  had  ridden 
a  little  in  Chicago  but  had  never  received  any  real  training  or  owned  any  Mounts 
of  my  own.  I  was  naturally  fearless  but  with  no  actual  knowledge  of  horseman- 
ship. I  suppose  I  had  a  fairly  decent  seat  when  riding  on  fairly  decent  roads, 
or  moving  slowly  on  some  safe  old  beast. 

I  did  not  falter  when  I  overheard  one  protesting  query,  "You  won't  put  her 
on  Flirt?" — with  the  reply — "She  says  she  can  ride,  the  mare  is  tired  enough  to 


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be  safe,"  and  I  let  my  pride  or  vanity  or  self  love  be  flattered.  "Now  your  foot, 
please?"  and  I  was  lifted  (I  fear  not  too  light  a  weight)  with  a  gallant  show  of 
martial  courtesy.  And  a  stirring  Show  indeed  was  soon  to  follow,  of  anything 
but  the  War's  heroic  reality!  The  others,  four  in  all,  sprang  to  saddle  ready  to 
take  fences,  hedges,  road  or  ditch.  Was  ever  anything  crazier  than  for  a  complete 
novice  in  horsemanship  to  ride  with  seasoned  Cavalry  Officers? 

Everything  began  to  happen  as  in  a  tornado.  Ahead  of  us  a  series  of  rough 
open  fields,  partly  given  up  to  grass  with  criss-cross  ditches,  hummocks  or  water 
courses  in  the  distant  line  of  brakes  or  fences.  Some  low-lands  and  a  creek  or 
two  visible  and  dust,  dust,  dust,  a  golden  light  across  it  all.  Major  Rhoades  had 
a  beautiful  horse  and  they  all  started  clattering  along  in  a  sort  of  rhythm.  The 
talk  among  them  the  first  moment  we  moved  off  was  fluent,  but  immediately 
broken,  I  fancy,  as  they  looked  at  my  stiffened  figure  and  heavy  hold  on  the  reins. 
I  felt  as  if  I  was  being  dashed  up  and  down  in  scales — but  I  would  not  flinch.  The 
horses  hoofs  beat  like  drums  as  we  were  going  giddily  round  the  whole  earth!  I 
set  my  teeth  and  tried  to  answer  the  Major's  pleasant  question,  as  at  a  signal 
they  had  changed  from  trot  to  walk.  How  consummate  that  innate  politeness 
must  have  been,  which  kept  from  me  any  suggestion  even  of  the  spectacle  I  was 
making;  which  kept  me  equally  from  knowing  that  my  inexperience  had  instantly 
shown  itself! 

The  whole  world  seemed  to  have  taken  me  for  its  centre  and  the  flattery  of 
the  occasion  had  gone  to  my  head.  There  was  no  bitter  in  the  sweet,  of  being  a 
young  girl  with  all  those  smiling  Officers  ready  for  interchanges,  which  soon  how- 
ever ended  in  unemotional  friendliness  that  faded  rapidly  into  abstraction — for 
I  could  not  talk.  I  could  only  hold  on,  and  I  speedily  found  I  could  not  realize 
any  poetry  in  such  movements.  Shortly  I  saw  that  my  companions  began  to 
look  stiff  and  self-conscious  when  they  glanced  in  my  direction;  I  did  not  read 
the  apprehension  or  curiosity  in  their  eyes,  but  the  keen  watchfulness  and  readi- 
ness for  service  was  very  apparent.  The  place  was  pathless.  I  saw  that  every 
slightest  turn  had  to  be  alertly  chosen.  Yet  I  was  too  hotly  alive  to  care,  only 
eager  to  prove  fearlessness,  and  unaware  that  I  had  proved  steadily  a  total  lack 
of  skill  and  experience.  I  someway  felt  myself  invited  to  be  violent,  and  though 
I  clung  to  my  saddle  at  every  test,  revealing  ignorance  of  horsemanship,  I  was 
drawing  my  pride  up  from  the  depths — and  the  cord  was  slender  and  taut.  I 
had  panting  moments  catching,  holding  on,  dropping,  loosing  the  heavy  hand 
on  the  poor  horse's  mouth,  ludicrously  unequal  to  any  ease  of  management. 

Much  riding  in  later  life  in  the  Rockies  and  in  Cities;  the  teaching  of  two  Sea- 
sons in  excellent  riding-schools  under  skillful  masters;  a  few  special  lessons  over- 
seas, and  once  or  twice  riding  in  the  Bois  in  Paris,  all  left  me  appalled  and  humi- 
liated to  remember  my  mad  recklessness  and  display  of  audacity.  Mettlesome 
and  aspiring  and  half  crazy  they  must  have  thought  me,  a  transparent  embodiment 
of  determination  to  hide  what  never  could  be  hidden — my  inexperience  and  de- 
ficiencies. 

It  was  only  the  youth  of  those  Officers  that  made  them  forgetful  or  defiant 
of  danger.  There  might  have  been  a  Vidette  looking  at  us  from  the  edge  of  near 
or  distant  bushes,  for  they  took  no  circuits.  They  seemed  to  have  lost  fear  of 
my  being  thrown  which  surely  they  must  have  had  at  first,  and  continued  to  make 
straight  for  "Fort  Hell"  which  as  they  explained  was  one  of  the  outermost  Posts. 
We  galloped  over  a  sort  of  road  the  Cavalry  and  Infantry  had  made  in  their  rushes. 
There  was  no  reconnoitering  or  walking  the  horses  stealthily  as  if  apprehending 
danger,  which  1  felt  like  a  stab  when  I  heard  the  name  of  our  destination.  It  had 
become  a  mad  tearing  gait  most  of  the  way  and  I  felt  half-blinded  when  the  sharp 
command  rang  out,  "Give  rein — hold  tight,"  and  what  was  really  crack  or  opening 
in  the  ground  before  us  looked  to  me  a  great  crevasse.  Great  Heavens!  Only 
the  flash  of  a  second  to  think!  Instinctively  I  obeyed,  slackened  and  clung,  my 
horse  lifted  and  we  plunged  forward,  and  then  all  at  once  the  situation  was  too 
much  for  me. 

I  kept  lips  tight  shut  and  fought  fear — the  same  fear  that  came  on  me  in  mid 


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ocean  when  the  frightful  squall  was  upon  us.  But  now  as  then  there  was  no  help, 
I  must  bide  results.  And  with  no  guidance  my  horse  swerved  abruptly — perhaps 
a  snake  in  the  grass — I  never  knew  what,  and  I  never  knew  what  saved  me.  Major 
Rhoades  had  sprung  from  his  saddle  and  hurried  to  my  horse's  side.  He  spoke 
low  words  of  encouragement  as  he  grasped  and  returned  to  my  cold  hands  the 
dropped  reins.  I  have  known  since  what  he  must  have  known  and  felt;  and  ap- 
preciate what  I  could  not  then  recognize,  the  chivalry  that  hid  it  all  from  me. 

"After  all  it  makes  one  a  bit  crumpy  to  ride  too  fast,  but  you  know  you're 
safe  now,  and  we've  gone  far  enough.  It's  an  adventure  for  us  to  take  out  a  young 
lady,  and,"  with  an  engaging  smile,  "we've  got  to  share  our  visitor.  You  will 
have  to  go  to  General  Meade  according  to  orders,  so  we  must  hasten — and  about 
face."  _ 

Major  Rhoades  was  sharp  as  a  needle,  a  man  of  relentless  determination  and 
tireless  vigour,  and  he  appeared  as  full  of  quick  intelligence  as  of  energy.  Not 
one  of  those  well  trained  soldiers  had  shown  any  amusement,  in  true  kindness 
they  all  wanted  to  make  comfortable  their  foolish  young  guest  and  strove  to  ap- 
pear easy  and  natural  as  they  uttered  polite  compliments,  helping  me  to  recover 
poise  and  the  assurance  the  ride  had  so  nearly  exhausted. 

"You've  the  Spirit  of  a  Sport  and  no  mistake;  fearlessness  must  be  your  blood 
heritage",  said  my  companion,  and  I  rallied  and  tried  to  smile  back," I  don't 
know  about  that,  but  someone  said  laughter  was  my  blood  heritage",  and  I  drew 
a  great  breath  of  relief  as  he  continued — "Adventures  after  all  are  not  what  we're 
in  search  of.  You're  to  meet  the  Staff  and  then  to  the  General's  tent,  so  our 
time  is  short."  Two,  three,  perhaps  four  miles  we  had  reckoned  off,  and  then, 
doubling  on  ourselves,  no  longer  galloping  but  cantering  slowly  and  in  comfort, 
we  made  good  our  return.  I  laughed  under  breath,  as  he  handed  me  down  safe 
at  the  Tent-opening,  and  repeated  with  friendly  emphasis — "You  are  right; 
laughter  as  well  as  courage  must  be  a  blood  heritage,  and  both  are  yours." 

The  word  laughter  struck  the  true  note,  for  I  have  laughed  and  laughed  at 
myself,  and  again  with  others,  when  giving  accounts  of  that  day  of  days.  I  can 
vision  myself  always  humping  up  and  down — such  an  absurd  sort  of  picture! 
I  even  remember  the  brown  suit  I  wore,  that  short  English  jacket  with  the  four 
great  brown  buttons  of  polished  wood  for  front  adorning,  and  that  full  plaited 
skirt  which  lent  itself  to  the  demand,  and  was  so  easily  adapted  to  riding.  The 
suit  purchased  in  Havre  had  been  greatly  admired  on  ship-board,  because  when 
first  appearing  in  it,  they  said  I  looked  like  "The  Mistress  of  the  Quarter  Decks". 

The  sense  of  humour  that  laughs  longest  and  heartiest  when  one  laughs  at 
oneself,  (which  ability  is  one  of  the  best  features  of  its  saving  grace)  is,  as  I  have 
intimated  and  stated  before  in  these  pages,  very  fortunate  for  the  possessor.  They 
say  that  very  few  men  can  do  it,  and  fewer  women,  but  as  I  quoted  earlier  one 
who  can  laugh  at  himself  and  enjoy  it  can  afford  to!    It  is  decidedly  wholesome. 

Who  could  realize  that  upon  those  calm  young  men  about  me  such  tremendous 
issues  hung.  They  were  all  instructed  in  the  mysteries  of  terrible  conflict  and 
must  have  developed  aptitude  for  it,  judging  by  their  rank  and  title.  Celerity, 
valour  and  endurance  marked  them  as  soldiers  of  note  however  young.  They 
had  seen  long  service.  They  were  all  real,  but  I  felt  they  all  wore  masks.  I  felt 
challenged  also  to  show  no  self  consciousness,  no  excitement  in  the  face  of  their 
readiness,  their  complete  calm  courtesy.  It  was  so  wonderful  to  think  how  life 
and  death  hung  in  the  balance, for  their  every  hour, when  the  game  of  War  was 
actually  played;  when  courage,  concentration,  swiftness,  unceasing  skill,  effort 
and  daring  must  be  kept  up  through  everything,  with  havoc  and  horror  of  de- 
struction facing  them.  And  some  of  them  who  came  and  went  those  hours  of  my 
visit  were  not  particularly  educated,  nor  particularly  good  looking;  not  exception- 
ally clever,  not  brilliant  talkers,  but  genuine,  honest  and  competent  they  must 
have  been,  for  they  were  unpretentious  and  totally  free  from  assumption.  Who 
could  believe  as  they  so  lightly  talked  and  planned  for  my  further  pleasure  how 
intensely  serious  those  last  hours,  that  my  stay  had  broken  into,  must  have  been — 
expecting  a  call  or  movement  any  moment. 


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And  indeed,  what  they  called  a  scare  or  false  alarm,  ended  my  day  in  an  ex- 
citement pressed  down  and  running  over!  I  feel  dazed  now  to  recall  it.  The 
sudden  message  sent  and  received  at  the  door  of  the  Tent — The  Orderly's  low 
voice — no  swearing — no  shouting — the  quick  orders  given  and  understood — and 
all — all  were  gone.  Nothing  sensational  or  startling  did  I  see  even  under  such 
circumstances,  for  every  one  held  his  nerve,  and  at  that  call  and  response  had 
remembered  to  bow  a  farewell;  and  in  my  role  of  spectator  I  was  not  for  the  moment 
afflicted  with  any  sense  of  unimportance.  The  circumstances  stimulated  to  a 
point  of  utter  self  forgetfulness. 

"Halt — Bang — Halt — Bang — "  I  had  heard  in  the  distance,  as  that  Orderly 
rushed  from  the  door,  and  each  man  sprang  and  was  out  of  sight  as  if  by  magic! 
How  keen  they  must  all  have  been  "in  march",  and  what  drastic  attention  to 
detail!  That  one  picture  of  Major  Rhoades  showed  me  perfect  sportsmanship 
in  soldiering.  A  look  of  care  on  his  features,  low  spoken  orders  to  two  men,  that 
must  have  been  picked  men,  to  accompany  the  Ambulance  and  who  later  rode 
on  each  side  of  us  even  to  the  puffing  little  train  waiting  to  start  for  City  Point. 
Major  Rhoades  in  that  last  sight  of  him  looked  stern,  quiet,  inflexible — no  sign 
of  unchecked  emotion.  By  me  never  to  be  seen  again,  yet  forever  after  my  ideal 
of  the  young  Commander. 

After  his  brief  words  of  caution  and  quiet  farewell  I  stood  alone  at  the  door 
of  that  tent,  facing  the  vision  of  the  Companies  "Double  Quick";  looking  breath- 
lessly at  the  long  lines  in  the  distance,  the  streets  of  that  City  of  Tents  where  the 
living  units  in  close  formation  were  moving  swiftly  to  the  supposed  point  of  attack. 
There  were  shots  that  began  to  puff  and  crack  in  the  distance;  a  shell  or  so  left 
its  track  in  the  upper  air,  but  the  flashing  and  crackling  of  rifles  was  even  more 
distant.  Inside  I  almost  heard  the  voice  of  command  that  seemed  to  say,  hurry — 
hurry — hurry  as  I  watched  the  serried  ranks  file  out  and  start,  ready  at  the  sharp 
words  for  cheer  and  charge.  The  boom — "boom"  was  in  my  fancy, for  I  was  on 
the  edge  of  my  nerves  waiting,  for  the  ordered  Ambulance,  yet  with  a  sudden 
intense  touch  of  irrepressible  pride  that  I  could  be  there;  that  I  could  see  it — 
the  soldiers  starting  for  action,  although  those  speeding  columns  so  soon  swallowed 
up  and  out  of  sight,  were  to  be  as  speedily  returned.  The  end — the  end  of  the 
War  was  so  near  and  had  visioned  itself  to  my  startled  gaze.  To  me  from  that 
time  the  whole  question  was  more  thoroughly  understood  as  to  its  burdens  and 
horrors.  War  was  something  else  than  seeing  Regiment  after  Regiment  march 
away  to  the  music  of  drums  and  fifes.  It  brought  up  the  long  lists  of  killed  and 
wounded,  of  prisoners,  and  of  incurable  sorrows  and  unspeakable  woes.  Drums 
beating,  the  sound  of  bands  and  waving  of  flags,  was  lost  in  the  advance  of  troops 
and  roar  of  battles. 

Before  we  really  steamed  away  we  learned  the  story  of  that  little  ambuscade, 
which  had  visioned  itself  to  my  startled  gaze  as  a  real  encounter.  It  was  the 
smallest  sort  of  Scrimmage;  a  few  wounded  or  slightly  hurt,  none  killed  outright — 
an  everyday  affair — and  merely  meant  a  brief  but  vain  pursuit.  There  was  laugh- 
ter, I  heard,  among  those  capable  young  Officers,  whose  force  and  dignity  was 
broken  by  plenty  of  humour  over  the  dash  that  deserted  their  guest,  and  over 
the  whole  situation  which  in  fact  was  amusing  to  them. 

"Brisk  work  ahead,"  I  had  heard  Mr.  Benedict  say  as  the  clumsy  Engineer 
boosted  me  in  and  climbed  after,  while  I  waved  to  the  lumbering  Ambulance 
turning  Eastward  into  a  by-road.  That  railroad,  built  for  supplies  to  the  Front, 
and  constructed  alone  for  the  Army's  use,  ran  parallel  with  its  line  of  entrench- 
ments from  City  Point  to  the  extreme  left.  It  just  followed  the  contour  of  the 
ground,  not  particular  about  grades  or  curves;  the  rails  laid  without  tires,  judg- 
ing from  its  roughness;  and  we  bumped  up  and  down  worse  than  before.  Sensa- 
tions as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  largely  due  to  the  effects  upon  the  physical  system 
of  that  remarkable  horseback  ride,  one  of  the  outstanding  features  of  the  day, 
but  so  great  a  day  that  exultation  enabled  me  to  ignore  all  bodily  ills,  and  return 
to  the  Barracks  and  those  surprised  inmates  in  high  spirit  and  open,  if  not  boast- 
ful, pride. 


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I  was  conscious  of  cold  shivers  long  after  I  learned  the  last  exciting  feature 
was  only  a  false  alarm,  and  I  always  think  of  it  as  a  sudden  roar;  as  suddenly 
no  longer  audible;  and  nothing  discernible.  Everything  suddenly  lying  low  once 
more;  but  imprinted  forever  on  my  mind  the  great  "Tented  Field";  the  white 
Tents,  row  on  row  as  far  as  I  could  see,  and  those  little  streets  full  of  swiftly  mov- 
ing lines  of  men;  masses  and  masses  of  them  appearing  and  disappearing.  "Left 
into  Line";  I  could  hear  that  at  first,  as  those  nearest  wheeled  and  marched.  Vig- 
orous attacks  were  made  at  any  point  when  any  portion  of  the  hostile  forces  ap- 
proached, and  I  was  perfectly  fascinated  by  my  thoughts  of  such  strength  and 
manliness. 

They  were  all  soldiers  from  their  spurs  up,  as  it  looked  to  me,  embodiments 
of  chivalry — limitless  chivalry  that  seemed  the  keynote  of  their  characters.  It 
is  a  supreme  quality  in  the  soldier.  But  there  had  been  something  hard  and 
burning  underneath  all  their  apparent  lightness.  I  sensed  it  when  they  dashed 
out,  when  Major  Rhoades  sprang  into  saddle,  wheeled  and  at  a  bound  was  off 
like  a  deer — away  off — all  of  those  young  heroes  never  to  be  seen  again,  marching 
with  distant  columns,  while  our  Ambulance  moved  as  if  afloat  in  the  dust  that 
cut  and  curtained  everything. 

There  is  nothing  new  under  the  Sun.  The  Old  which  was  older  then  still  is 
the  younger  today.  Our  Country  has  kept  its  freshness,  withstood  the  stress  of 
over  sixty  years  since  that  day  long  gone  yet  fresh  to  me.  It  grows  in  power. 
It  is  tremendous  in  wealth;  riotous  in  triumph;  established  in  supremacy.  Yet 
exists  the  unthinkable  pit-falls,  the  noisome  whirlpools,  the  threat  of  destructi- 
bility.  Even  like  the  old  Empires  reduced  to  dust  for  the  chariot  wheels  of  genera- 
tions to  cover.  Verily  the  Clock  strikes' — up  and  down,  round  and  round.  There 
is  nothing  new  under  the  Sun. 


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THE    LAST    WORD 

The  Scenes  however  small  that  I  have  scattered  through  these  pages  show 
what  delight  I  took  in  the  incidents  and  experiences  to  which  I  had  access.  I  get 
vivid  amusement  in  recording  for  you  the  odd  or  ordinary  occurrences  from  the 
eager  or  hurried  jumbo  of  more  or  less  crowded  days;  from  the  medley  where 
I  derived  satisfaction,  with  labour  and  privation  and  suffering  always  singularly 
absent.  As  to  the  finer  spiritual  sides  and  needs,  I  certainly  was  unquestionably 
sincere  in  believing  I  recognized  them.  My  natural  instinct  was  to  play  with 
deeper  thoughts  and  aspirations  and  to  purpose  to  satisfy  them  somehow.  But 
the  natural  drift  is  towards  the  surface  of  things,  although  with  the  best  will  in 
the  world  to  take  them  as  substantial  rather  than  petty.  All  my  life  I  have  been 
essentially  incapable  of  considering  my  close  relations  with  others  as  unimportant 
enough  to  shuffle  off  and  forget.  My  own  summary  therefor  is  that  these  Remin- 
iscences, not  profound,  are  yet  veracious  and  not  wholly  unworthy  the  background 
against  which  larger  things  and  larger  people  necessarily  stand  out. 

It  may  seem  now  a  sort  of  endless  comedy  from  the  thinker's  angle,  but  these 
Sketches  are  not  for  maturity — for  youth  as  I  was  young — who  will  understand 
perhaps  how  I  seized  the  best  chances  for  enjoyment,  how  I  avoided  unhappiness 
by  losing  myself  in  what  was  purely  personal.  I  had  no  dissatisfaction  with  life, 
only  always  a  longing  to  pour  out  from  treasures  in  deepest  depths.  I  think  if 
you  delve  under  the  surface  you  will  find  I  had  a  fair  opinion  of  my  own  capacity, 
that  I  loved  my  friends,  adored  my  Mother,  was  loyal  and  devoted  to  my  Father 
and  brothers,  which  coloured  my  life,  but  is  no  credit  and  involved  no  self-sacri- 
ficing action.  I  repudiate  the  imputation  that  I  have  been  responsible  for  calamities 
or  disappointments,  that  have  in  later  years  fallen  upon  me,  any  more  than  for 
the  felicities  of  my  youth.  The  pity  of  it  is  that  in  age  so  largely,  almost  wholly, 
the  fun,  the  sparkle  of  life  has  to  be  looked  for  in  the  past. 

What  we  have  grown  up  with  is  what  most  counts.  And  travel  in  many  lands, 
all  with  a  wealth  of  imaginative  suggestion;  with  constant  renewals  of  opportunities 
as  the  years  swept  by;  has  enriched  my  experience  and  brought  to  me  a  pictur- 
esqueness  that  made  me  love  existence  for  its  own  sake,  that  gave  me  some  know- 
ledge of  the  wealth  of  art,  and  the  treasures  of  inexhaustible  beauty  in  all  the 
many  countries  I  have  visited.  I  always  found  that  what  had  entered  into  the 
tissues  of  my  early  life  enabled  me  to  dream  over  whatever  I  gathered,  in  my 
wanderings  to  and  fro  and  up  and  down  the  earth.  Flaubert  reminds  us  of  the 
profound  truth — "It  is  only  commonplaceness,  well  known  countries,  that  have 
inexhaustible  beauty."  With  me  it  is,  and  always  has  been,  my  own  home  and 
surroundings,  and  all  the  pageant  of  the  laughing  Lake  that  is  before  me  as  I  write. 

The  temperament  of  the  sensitive,  after  youth  and  its  dream,  cannot  it  seems, 
always  find  life  easy,  for  disillusionment  has  in  it  a  sword.  But  I  have  always 
gone  cheerfully  on  my  way,  not  unaware  of  failures,  but  in  age  as  in  youth  quite 
indifferent  to  and  untrammeled  by  criticism.  I  have  had  no  quarrels  with  my  past, 
the  present  always  held  me,  and  the  future  always  beckoned. 

Sometimes  and  frequently  making  false  moves,  holding  no  true  solution  of 
the  puzzle,  noting  what  was  going  on  in  the  world  and  asking  many  questions, 
I  have  had  violent  seizures  of  mental  activity  and  rebellion.  And  so  with  less 
and  less  certitude  of  power — for  I  have  dimly  guessed  as  we  all  must — I  have  been 
very  gradually  and  often  led  backward  instead  of  forward.  I  had  no  compre- 
hension of  any  issues,  only  the  growing  need  of  the  stirring  of  courage  and  will- 
ingness to  fight  these  relaxing  sensations,  that  produce  enervation  and  indifference. 
One  has  to  learn  to  fight  intellectual  torpor  through  which  so  many  have  perished. 

I  think  slowly  but  steadily  I  grew  someway  co-operative  in  outlook,  in  a  sense 
tolerant  of  the  intolerant.  I  shook  off  certain  prejudices  early,  and  felt  as  if  cer- 
tain scales  in  matters  of  judgment  dropped  from  my  eyes.  With  people  of  op- 
posing views,  of  widely  different  beliefs,  I  grew  to  feel  less  and  less  alienation; 

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more  of  curiosity  and  of  interest.  And  with  leaders  of  widely  different  faiths — 
Catholic,  Jewish,  Occultist,  all  in  some  measure  appealed  as  vital  and  worthy 
of  respect.  Jew,  Greek,  Gentile,  or  Unbeliever,  what  difference  does  it  make? 
All  have  something  to  teach  and  to  give,  and,  as  the  philosophers  say,  nothing  is 
wholly  evil,  it  is  our  objection  to  the  unknown  that  makes  us  think  so — I  have 
investigated  in  mild  fashion,  and  attached  myself  to  whatever  offered  the  best 
returns  of  either  profit  or  pleasure,  and,  fortunately  in  selecting  the  few  that 
blessed  and  ennobled  my  life  in  love  and  friendship,  I  often  found  myself  rich  and 
happy  in  very  short  order.  All  my  life  I  have  enjoyed  meeting  people;  the  dif- 
ference between  books  and  people  is  the  difference  between  bottled  water  and 
running  water.  I  have  enjoyed  entertaining,  I  think  I  may  say  that  from  in- 
heritance or  habit  I  was  almost  a  natural  born  hostess;  certainly  "talk  does  not 
flag  in  my  neighbourhood",  and  I  think  a  lack  of  self  consciousness  and  a  real 
interest  in  others,  sets  everyone  at  ease.  The  charm  to  me  of  characteristic  in- 
dividuality never  loses  its  force.  What  I  don't  like  is  cynicism  and  critical  attitudes, 
and  what  I  cannot  disarm  I  ignore. 

My  business  in  writing  for  you  these  Sketches  has  been  rendering  with  ex- 
actitude what  I  could  command.  I  have  not  invented  or  set  going  or  adopted 
any  devices.  I  have  only  tried  convincingly  to  express  feelings,  and  clearly  de- 
scribe scenes,  interviews  and  facts  of  experience — as  far  as  possible  I've  held  them 
up  to  view.  But  in  the  writing  one  rule  I've  kept  before  me,  to  show  in  all  the 
words  written  the  progress  or  deterioration  made;  for  everything  in  every  hour 
of  life  indicates  growth  or  change,  and  points  to  loss  or  development,  for  the 
standing  still  is  the  impossible  thing.  I  have  written  with  the  intensity  of  interest 
I've  always  felt.  There  must  be  continuity  as  well  as  coherence  in  description; 
in  giving  various  incidents  that  carry  the  story  forward;  in  getting  what  is  true 
and  worth  while  out  of  the  subject,  showing  the  quality  of  action,  the  intensity 
of  thought  or  ardor  of  feeling,  when  pulses  beat  and  excitement  is  at  fever  heat. 
In  deciding  the  important  epochs  as  life  progresses  one  cannot  retard  action.  It 
is  the  sum  of  reality  that  must  stand,  and  the  scenes  I  have  recorded  are  real, 
neither  complex  nor  tantalizing  to  render,  only,  as  my  life  is  and  was,  I  tried  to 
go  straight  to  my  point  and  not  too  self-centeredly. 

It  is  all  an  immense  subject  to  tell  how  a  thing  is  written;  with  a  romance, 
anything  fictional,  you  are  free  to  choose  your  own  style,  your  own  character, 
and  how  to  elaborate  them  by  imaginary  scenes  and  juxtapositions,  and  so  com- 
bine and  create  the  desired  effects.  I  have  created  nothing  but  atmosphere  in 
these  Sketches;  I  repeat  again  as  a  "last  word"  that  not  one  fact  has  been  imagined 
to  make  things  dramatic.  They  all  occurred.  They  are  all  true.  In  a  sense  it 
was  all  simple  living  that  I  had  to  tell — hoping  to  interest  the  young  members 
of  our  family  by  making  the  experiences  clear,  and  speeches  or  communications 
natural  and  direct  as  they  were;  the  conversations  characteristic  in  their  developed 
phases  and  phrases.  I  have  always  as  a  rule  striven  to  write  in  the  language 
naturally  employed,  as  we  talked  the  one  to  the  other,  mentally  aiming  to  use 
just  the  words  and  phrases  characteristic  of  the  individual.  It  became  almost 
involuntary,  and  very  easy  to  employ  and  give  the  equivalent  of  the  thought 
since  we  all  talked  simply  enough. 

And  this  I  assert  and  emphasize,  that  although  I  have  dwelt  on  what  happened 
so  long  ago,  it  happened  not  too  long  for  the  memory  to  be  sure.  Of  course  one 
cannot  pretend  that  he  could  remember  whole  speeches,  or  render  even  a  few 
words  with  perfect  accuracy  after  six  hours,  to  say  nothing  of  sixty  years! — 
that  is  simply  absurd.  The  most  that  any  human  being  can  carry  away  of  a 
conversation  after  a  few  days  is  just  the  telling  sentences,  and  the  mannerisms 
of  the  speaker.  And  an  entire  monologue  or  dialogue,  or  pages  of  interchange 
in  speech,  direct  accounts  in  remembering  and  rendering  words,  naturally  will 
set  anyone  who  reads  them  to  more  than  wonder  how  a  narrator  could  truthfully 
record  such  elaborated  expressions,  even  if  speaking  of  the  immediate  present,  or 
that  the  interchange  had  just  existed.  Of  course  I  do  not  claim  to  recollect  all 
the  language  I  use.     I 'mean  the  exact  words  witli  which  the  different  ones,  who 


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come  so  close  in  incident  or  association,  express  themselves,  but  the  incidents  are, 
and  all  remain  vivid  in  mind  and  heart;  and  I  put  down  my  story  in  substance, 
and  literally,  as  far  as  possible.  All  that  I  know  is  that  my  life  has  been  packed, 
full  of  emotions,  of  incidents,  great  and  small,  that  held  an  imperishable  place  in 
memory.  In  quick  succession  as  I  have  written  Memory  has  turned  the  spot- 
light on  individuals  and  scenes,  and  I  could  dig  deep  into  consciousness  and  in 
intense  concentration  re-live  it  all,  and  so  write  as  I've  said  with  accuracy  of  de- 
tail. 

Sometimes  in  thrills  the  Past  has  become  the  Present,  and  nothing  of  it  for- 
gotten. To  the  impulses  of  awakened  memory  every  sense  responds;  sometimes 
with  a  startling  sureness  that  gives  off  a  fresh  wave  along  that  once  traveled  path 
of  experience.  From  the  very  first  the  reporting  or  rendering  speeches,  is  faced 
simply  by  characterizing,  by  intimate  knowledge  of  those  who  are  introduced, 
who  worked  on  the  writer  so  that,  in  their  clear  recall,  in  the  direct  telling  of 
facts,  of  their  influence  and  the  effect  wrought  by  such  association,  /  am  made 
manifest.  If  one  stops  to  think  he  knows  that  his  recollection  of  events  if  clearly 
stated  must  familiarize  those  who  are  to  read,  as  he  is  familiar,  with  the  personality 
and  the  peculiarities  of  those  of  whom  he  is  writing.  I  know  I  have  keen  impres- 
sions of  what  occurred,  and,  knowing  the  participants,  and  the  impressions  pro- 
duced on  me,  I  know  what  they  were  and  meant,  and  almost  exactly  what  was 
said,  on  the  special  occasions  described  or  referred  to.  I  have  deliberately  there- 
for been  as  accurately  personal  as  possible. 

It  is  not  merely  acuteness  or  impossible  recollection,  it  is  merely  perfect  honesty 
of  statement  in  the  impressions  produced.  Of  course  I  don't  want  to  postulate 
myself  as  having  a  prodigious  memory,  for  that  I  have  not.  I  recall  occurrences 
and  occasions  that  mark  my  days  without  effort,  and  I  have  one  unalterable 
rule  for  the  rendering  of  any  exchanges  of  thought,  of  interrogation  or  of  replies, 
in  fact  for  statements  of  any  kind — that  is,  to  strive  to  record  their  effects.  I 
have  simply  purposed  to  illustrate  individuals  in  snatches  of  speech,  when  the 
characters  answer  each  other;  and  to  hesitate  or  to  compromise  would  be  to  lose 
the  point  of  dramatic  working  up  to  vivify  the  individual,  or  to  make  live  for 
you  the  persons  who  lived  so  largely  for  me.  You  could  not  otherwise  arrive  at 
animated  life  in  colour  or  presentment,  and  nothing  would  be  conveyed  except 
a  self-unguessed  and  self-engrossed  human  being. 

In  trying  to  re-create  the  personalities  of  those  who  surrounded  me,  whose 
grace  for  me  has  never  perished,  there  has  been  a  tenderness  in  their  revival  be- 
yond all  thinking.  They  were  all  real  and  never  shadows — pictures  in  the  back- 
ground of  my  life;  and  in  the  unfailing  delight  of  those  early  days  the  fragrance 
of  certain  personalities  can  never  be  forgotten.  They  do  not  move  in  dreamland 
but  vividly  before  my  eyes  as  I  write.  I  am  quite  awake  in  remembrance  of  child- 
hood and  girlhood.  Its  comfort  and  warmth  still  surround  me,  and  will  to  the 
very  end,  for  therein  do  I  know  myself  so  richly  blessed  that  no  complaints  can 
be  allowed  to  age.     I  have  had  my  day — and  my  days  are  nearly  done. 

Often  as  I  contemplate  what  it  was  I  meant  to  say,  and  as  I  grope  back  among 
the  shadows  to  the  time  when  all  preceding  events  had  their  beginning  out  of 
the  silence  which  surrounds  me,  I  catch  the  ring  of  gay  laughter.  Echoes  of  it 
roll  ceaselessly  out  toward  the  empty  sea.  Thoughts  are  never  quiet  long.  They 
are  like  the  Gulls  that  keep  circling  about  over  the  waves,  dropping  down,  edging 
upward  until  they  are  like  bits  of  cloud  drift — live  things — the  tangible  shape  of 
a  score  of  realized  and  unrealized  aspirations — the  embodiment  of  a  score  of  con- 
cealed wills  or  actions.  I  wonder  are  they  watching  for  the  Ship  that  never  came 
in? — that  never  sailed:  the  Ship,  that  clouds  on  the  horizon  forever  hid  from  ac- 
tual vision?    The  Ship  of  Dreams,  whose  echoes  roll  ceaselessly  on  a  land  breeze? 

Wherever  my  glance  turns  I  discover  in  my  past  objects  that  make  associa- 
tion of  ideas  and  thoughts,  that  seem  to  chatter  like  the  squirrels  in  the  trees  of 
my  Anchorfast.  Life  lies  behind  with  such  store  of  memory,  such  store  of  ex- 
periences, that  I  wish  I  could  make  a  little  of  it  of  more  value  to  the  shining  eyes 
and  expectant  hearts  at  the  opposite  end  of  this  chain  of  my  existence,  coming 


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on  with  gladness  and  hope — thinking  to  find  life  easy — to  bend  their  environment 
to  their  own  purposes.  The  charming  optimism  of  Youth!  Optimism  is  an  at- 
tractive state  of  mind,  but  it  may  be  disastrous  sometimes  to  others.  Of  course 
it  is  an  old  truth,  an  adage  really,  that  the  best  lies  always  within  ourselves;  but 
in  youth — how  could  it  be  otherwise — all  our  values  seem  to  be  material.  Life 
is  no  pretty  fairy  tale.  We  are  all  of  us,  the  noblest  and  the  meanest,  governed 
and  directed  by  the  pressure  of  our  surroundings,  by  the  conditions  and  circum- 
stances of  our  daily  existence.    Our  environment  largely  controls  us. 

There  is  a  lot  of  happiness  and  serenity  in  life.  Look  for  it — hold  on  to  it  my 
dear  ones — forget  what  is  disappointing  while  blissful  happy  youth  remains. 
Life  has  to  be  lived,  not  as  we  choose  or  yearn  for  but  as  it  comes.  And  we  must 
— we  must  dedicate — make  it  a  dedication  to  something  greater  than  ourselves. 
I  am  not  wise — but  I  am  old — and  I  know  we  must  hold  fast  to  something  above 
and  beyond  us;  that  there  must  be  in  us  a  supreme  and  driving  force  carrying 
us  upward,  or  we  can  never  make  life  a  beautiful  thing,  for  beautiful  life  consists 
of  finely  tempered  impulses  expressing  themselves  in  finely  tempered  acts. 

In  the  morning  of  life  what  we  think  does  not  follow  as  truth,  but  disappoint- 
ments should  not  mean  bitterness,  if  one  could  only  keep  balance  of  vision  and 
not  see  things  through  a  false  perspective.  Face  life  with  gaiety  as  well  as  courage, 
and  some  measure  of  wisdom  will  follow.  And  be  sure  of  one  thing  that  few  things 
can  or  ever  will  come  to  us  as  we  dreamed.  And  happiness  when  it  comes  will 
not  stay  unless  it  lies  within  ourselves.  Life  does  not  fail  us.  It  is  we  who  fail. 
It  never  should  break  us  because  it  is  not  cut  to  our  pattern,  or  is  full  of  discipline 
and  seeming  emptiness.  Don't  beat  the  air.  We  must  face  the  inevitable  courage- 
ously. We  can  win:  and  we  must  learn  to  find  our  happiness  in  a  different  way 
from  our  dreams.  Staying  power  is  the  great  need — abiding  purpose — the  use  of 
the  will  to  acquiesce,  as  well  as  to  strive  to  circumvent  or  surmount.  Courage 
as  well  as  will — and  patience — patience  to  wait,  which  finally  gives  the  under- 
standing soul. 

It  is  essential  that  everyone  should  learn,  and  cease  to  be  proud  of  his  abysmal 
ignorance.  It  is  profoundly  unreasoning  to  judge  of  what  can  only  be  justly 
judged  by  time.  We  must  have  faith  in  our  greatest  weapons — education — the 
process  which  puts  people  in  touch  with  abler  minds  and  truer  scientific  facts. 
As  I've  read  somewhere  and  devoutly  believe  the  real  fountain  of  youth  is  in  our 
brain.  If  we  keep  up  its  activity  it  accelerates  circulation  of  the  blood,  of  the 
vital  fluids.  If  we  keep  up  interest  in  life  we  need  not  keep  count  of  the  years. 
It  helps  the  best  interests  in  life  to  preserve  even  suppleness  of  body,  to  hold  off 
illness  and  old  age,  and  perhaps  that's  the  secret  of  not  growing  old. 

But  the  Country  of  the  Young  is  a  delectable  country  to  remember,  and  so 
remembering  it  is  natural  sometimes  to  break  down  the  barriers  of  the  years. 
For  me  the  Past  has  been  accessible,  as  open  as  it  is  permanent,  and  it  does  not 
require  imagination,  only  memory  to  mentally  visualize  and  picture  freely  where 
I  have  once  lived — and  have  lived  now  for  you  so  much  of  it  again. 

The  possibilities  of  life  are  by  no  means  exhausted  because  of  our  lack  of  ex- 
perience. Life  holds  many  joys  and  victories  I  have  found  without  that  supreme 
blessing,  that  love  and  union  which  I  had  thought  the  only  infinite  adventure. 

And  now  I  can  safely  say  that  if  I  never  touched  the  depths  and  heights  of 
emotional  joy,  I  have  preserved  to  the  present  my  whole  heartedness.  The  measure 
of  my  own  ignorance,  and  temporary  loss,  was  taken  with  infinite  patience  by 
the  Powers  above.  The  mysterious  and  disheartening  elements  could  not  trouble 
to  any  point  my  youth.  The  Great  Arbiter  of  Life  and  Death  has  led  me  very 
gradually  to  comprehension  of  the  issues  bound  to  follow  our  own  actions,  and  so 
has  shifted  me  slowly  to  degrees  perhaps  a  little  higher  spiritually  and  intellectually, 
for  nothing  ever  turns  somber  for  long — nothing  can  take  the  splendour  from  the 
sunshine  and  the  Lake.  I  was  always  keyed  up  by  changing  scenes,  by  travel  and 
environment,  to  move  forward  straight  on  to  the  climax  of  some  inevitable  action. 
I  seemed  made  to  take  many  steps  instinctively  and  tentatively. 

The  purposes  of  our  life  arc  in  youth  vague  and  only  dimly  understood,  but 


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at  intervals  in  my'age  it  has  seemed  as  if  I  almost  glimpsed  briefly  an  unrolled 
corner  of  God's  gieat  plan;  the  necessity  of  conquest,  and  that  which  accompanied 
it  the  necessity  of  growth,  of  progress,  of  service  if  one  would  stand  before  the 
Illimitable.  It  is  natural  that  the  nearer  we  draw  to  the  end  of  our  journey  the 
more  ardour  we  feel  for  our  long  lost  Youth.  Not  that  we  would  go  back  as  we 
were,  we  would  not  choose  to  return  unless  we  could  recapture  the  freshness  and 
wonder  with  which  we  looked  upon  life. 

-  i  There  is  a  sad  irony  in  longing  looks  cast  backward,  and  disappointed  as  one 
may  be  by  the  sight  of  many  things  he  had  most  longed  to  see  or  had  never  seen, 
whatever  has  been  denied  me,  or  consciously  or  unconsciously  I  have  lost,  I  thank 
Heaven  I  have  never  in  my  own  City  or  home  known  bitterness.  My  Anchorfast, 
my  Lake  a  great  miracle  of  light — sometimes  delicate  and  rapturous— are  passions 
of  mine  and  as  in  youth  so  in  age  they  give  me  unspeakable  joy.  The  beauty  of 
the  Stars  and  the  glory  of  Sunlight  have  deeper  meanings  than  I  can  understand, 
even  as  the  delights  of  youth  had  meanings  vast  and  holy,  but  all  uncomprehended 
by  youth. 

Yes  Life  is  a  strange  beautiful  thing.  At  different  times  in  it  we  are  indeed 
as  different  beings.  There  are  feelings  that  sweep  over  us  and  annihilate  all  sense 
of  time.  It  is  the  goodness,  the  joy  of  the  things  we  have  lived  through,  that  dwells 
forever  with  us.  I  think  it  is  necessary  only  to  comprehend  a  few  great  truths  to 
live  the  life  that  is  worth  living,  if  we  will.  We  have  got  to  feel  certain  things 
behind  and  above  us  or  it  is  all  empty  enough — the  very  verdant  Earth  itself,  if 
we  are  not  at  peace.  We  have  to  live  and  do  our  best  for  that  alone  gives  any 
answer  to  the  problem  of  living. 

Looking  back  it  seems  an  unbelievable  thing  that  I  who  was  ardent,  restless, 
impressionable  and  craving  adventure,  should  have  found  and  still  find  my  world 
so  stable  and  so  tranquil.  And  these  hours  I've  re-lived  in  happiness  for  you, 
the  old  time  when  I  did  thus  and  so,  went  here  and  there,  finally  ends  in  these 
last  words.  I  am  thinking  of  you,  Children,  this  lovely  May  morning  of  1925 
when  I  say  farewell;  and  because  I  think  of  Youth,  of  the  sparkling  splendour 
of  the  sky,  the  sense  impression  in  the  lustrous  blue  dome  above,  the  cool  keen 
sweetness  of  our  Inland  Sea,  the  breeze  that  has  blown  over  leagues  of  distance, 
the  freshness  of  the  air,  the  beauty  of  it  all  gets  into  the  blood  and  makes  me  forget 
my  present  in  the  past,  and  a  riot  of  joy  seizes  me  even  at  fourscore  and  more! 
The  commencing  my  life  in  that  dim,  dim  past  is  now  in  the  uneventful  present 
reaching  forward,  reaching  toward — God  grant  what  God  knows  we  all  pray  for 
— Eventual  Union  with  The  Highest — Immortality  springing  from  our  little 
heaps  of  ashes. 

It  is  true  in  a  sense  that  there  is  no  past  that  the  Book  is  never  closed.  In  the 
same  sense  the  Past  is  no  memory  for  the  Past  is  in  me  now.  As  long  as  I  can  think, 
I  am,  and  there  is  nothing  yet  that  makes  me  cease  to  be.  Everything  in  me  moves 
and  twists  and  is  living — is  flesh  and  nerves — because  it  is  what  I  was,  what  I 
am,  what  I  shall  be.  And  I  know  that  nothing,  nothing  has  gone  from  me.  As 
long  as  there  comes  no  blackness  that  makes  me  cease  to  feel  the  past  is  no  memory. 
It  is  in  me  now,  and  no  matter  how  I  turn  the  leaves  the  Book  is  never  closed. 

"Sunset  and  Evening  Star  for  me",  and  yet  I  am  feeling  the  streaming  sun- 
shine, and  I  lift  my  eyes  to  see  from  my  windows  the  sparkling  expanse  of  Lake- 
level  stretching  in  a  tumult  of  splendour  to  the  far  horizon.  Sometimes  as  today 
I  awake  into  clear  sun-swept  morning  just  after  the  dawn,  with  no  reason  for  so 
early  a  waking.  In  the  night  I  heard  the  music  of  waves  breaking  gently  on  the 
shore,  the  same  music  that  in  childhood  was  always  breaking  through  my  dreams. 
All  these  sense  impressions  are  like  some  sounding  of  a  Spring  harbinger — a  mes- 
sage of  brightness.  The  living  things  are  in  me.  So  the  Past  is  not  the  Past.  It 
is  the  Present  still.  Mine  is  no  fretted  or  fretful  end.  It  is  not  Winter  in  my  heart. 
I  am  thinking  of  you,  Children.  Oh!  it  is  a  boon  to  live!  to  breathe,  to  see,  to  feel 
and  to  tread  the  circle  of  happy  thoughts;  to  wheel  off  into  dreamland  and  talk 
to  you  across  dividing  immeasurable  existence. 


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Oh!  to  have  Genius  for  the  Art  of  living!  Genius  for  being  vital,  for  seeing 
and  feeling  and  doing  all  that  it  is  possible  to  see  and  feel  and  do  in  these  years 
that  are  loaned  us.  The  desire  in  us  all  is  for  life — superabundant,  full,  ample, 
abounding  life.  Life  in  ideal  delights,  in  sensuous  power,  in  spiritual  exaltation, 
in  uninterrupted  impression — broad,  free,  mighty,  lasting  life — the  great  desire 
of  every  loving  Soul.  And  the  need  of  the  Soul  is  to  be  roused  to  the  renewal 
and  exercise  of  its  highest  functions,  the  use  of  its  highest  powers  in  unclouded 
aspiration  and  vivid  force.  Harmony  is  the  root  of  life.  The  sense  of  the  Invisi- 
ble, the  Infinite,  the  Omnipotent,  the  Everlasting  levels  human  grief  and  comforts 
human  pain. 

It's  the  great  onward  sweep  of  Time  that  is  bearing  us  all  on — old  and  young. 
Forget  not  that  however  many  dreams  are  unrealized  there  is  one  Eternal  com- 
pensating round.  And  if  fulfilment  comes  not  to  us  individually,  there  is  waiting, 
for  our  beloved  who  come  after,  that  which  will  lift  and  make  the  heart  sing  with 
the  Psalmist — "Instead  of  thy  Fathers  shall  be  the  Children  whom  Thou  may- 
est  make  Princes  in  all  the  Earth" — for — "Before  the  Mountains  were  brought 
forth,  or  ever  Thou  hadst  formed  the  Earth  and  the  World,  Even  from  Ever- 
lasting to  Everlasting  Thou  art  God." 


May  15,  1925 

Cornelia  G.  Lunt 


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